DO IT FOR YOUR SISTAS: BLACK SAME-SEX-DESIRING WOMEN'S

EROTIC PERFORMANCE PARTIES IN WASHINGTON D.C.

By

Michelle M. Carnes

Submitted to the

Faculty of the College of Arts and Sciences

of American University

in Partial Fulfillment of

the Requirements for the Degree

of Doctor of Philosophy

In

Anthropology

Chair:

Dr. Susan McDonic

Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences

2009 American University Washington D.C. 20016

AMERICAN UNIVERSITY UBHARY ~LL UMI Number: 3357493

Copyright 2009 by Carnes, Michelle M.

All rights reserved.

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by

Michelle M. Carnes

2009

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED DO IT FOR YOUR SISTAS: BLACK SAME-SEX DESIRING WOMEN'S

EROTIC PERFORMANCE PARTIES IN WASHINGTON D.C.

BY

Michelle M. Carnes

ABSTRACT

This dissertation traces the cultural geographies, origins and histories of Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance parties in

Washington D.C. In particular, I focus on the use of public space, appropriations of dominant space in the city, the reasons why such spaces were used for Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance parties in the District. I tie these modem secret events to histories of Black appropriations of space, intended to protect Black peoples (especially Black women) from violence, judgment, harassment. I argue that the creation of

Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance events in Washington

D.C. constitute a claim to privacy while contesting the heterosexual and patriarchal nature of public space. Black women in Washington D.C. are able to carve out spaces focused on Black women's same-sex desire, openly and freely expressed, out of an otherwise oppressive landscape. Despite a variety

11 of forces which seek to limit, contain or remove Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance parties from the city, their events persist through flexible uses of public space, using their visibility strategically to protect themselves from racist, sexist, homophobic readings of their bodies and desires while simultaneously asserting their rights to the use of public space in the city.

111 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This work would not have been possible without the time, dedication and trust of the Black women who create, attend and perform at the events in this project. In particular, I would like to acknowledge Di Collins, the promoter who directed me down the path and facilitated connections to other promoters, performers and audience members at events around the city.

Without her taking a chance on me and this project, it simply would not exist.

Ms. Vicki Harris is the queen mother/pioneer in Black women's event promotion in Washington D.C., who welcomed me to Wet/The Edge, always with a hug and a warm smile whenever we saw each other in the crushing crowd of enthusiastic tippers. I would also like to thank the fabulous Ms.

Shiqueeta Lee and her family of drag performers for their generosity, patience, encouragement and love for me from the very beginning of my fieldwork. I am grateful not only for their participation in the project but for the irreplaceable contribution each of them make to these events as well as to the histories and larger cultural fabric of Washington D.C.

During the course of the project, we lost some members of our family.

Diane "Buck" Bushrod was the promoter for BuckWild Entertainment and passed away from breast cancer in February of 2006. "Lil' Dee Dee" was a talented performer, best known for her impersonation of Fantasia, crowned

iv Ms. Cada Vez 2005, beloved for her spontaneity, creativity, humor and personal connection to her audience. Cheryl Spector, historian, archivist and drag king extraordinaire volunteered countless hours of her time and energy to archiving Washington D.C. LGBTQ histories, including the events described in this project. I dedicate this work to them.

During the course of researching and writing this project, the three members of my dissertation committee provided feedback, advice and insig..ht to shape and improve the project. Dr. William L. Leap, Dr. Sabiyha Prince and Dr. Susan McDonic collectively and persistently devoted time and energy to this project. Thanks go to them for their continued hard work and high standards to make this written project what it is today. Special thanks go to my father, William H. Carnes, Jr., to my dissertation coach, Dave Harris

(www.thoughtclearing.com) and to the ABD Group at American University.

You helped me find.my voice, my strength and my balance. You were my sounding boards, my counselors, my defense team and you enabled the necessary safety and freedom to write on my terms, in my own voice.

Ultimately, my partner, Mark K. Anduss, deserves sainthood for the range of experiences that finishing my degree wrought on our life together.

You made it possible for me to have long stretches of uninterrupted writing and studying time, space all to myself within which I could store my books, drafts, records, where I could work (and cry). You brought endless Cheetos,

Coke Zero, tissues, hugs and comforts, and never judged me. You are my

v dependable rock. It is my sincere goal to support your dreams and projects exactly as you support mine: with acceptance, patience and love.

vi TABLE OF CONTENTS

ABSTRACT ...... ii

ACKN"OWLEDGMENTS ...... iv

Chapter

1. INTRODUCTION ...... 1

2. ALL LADIES WELCOME: BLACK SAME-SEX DESIRING WOMEN IN TRADITIONAL STRIP CLUBS ...... 47

3. PUBLIC/PRIVATE/PLEASUREABLE: CREATING BLACK WOMEN'S LIFEWORLDS OUTSIDE WORK AND HOME ...... 74

4. PUBLIC/PRIVATE, COMMUNITY/INDIVIDUAL: CONSIDERATIONS WHEN SELECTING EVENT SP ACE ...... 105

5. CREATING BLACK EROTIC UTOPIA IN THE FLESH: ACCEPTANCE, PERMISSION AND STATUS ...... 136

6. "SMUT, BOOZE, SLUTS AND THUGS": SEXUAL STIGMA AND PUBLIC SEXUAL CULTURE ...... 176

7. CONCLUSION ...... 207

REFERENCES ...... 225

Vll CHAPTER 1

INTRODUCTION

This project explores the histories, development and continued tradition of Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance events in

Washington D.C. and how these events negotiate public/private divides.

While the venues where such events take place could be considered "public" buildings, the events themselves share qualities of both "public" and

"private." Public displays of sexuality confront the heterosexist code of silence and invisibility. In the case of these events, this confrontation is not just around visible displays of sexuality but of same-sex sexuality between

Black women. Event promoters, audience members and performers carefully negotiate the boundaries between public and private to keep the events safe, comfortable and able to survive the cultural forces which seek to disrupt them. I focus on the strategies employed historically to create Black secret space, strategies designed to confront larger, negative cultural judgments around Black women's sexualities and bodies. It is my hope that, through this examination of Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance events in Washington D.C., the project will contribute to understanding of the degree to which Black women mobilize meanings around

1 2

"public" and "private" and use them strategically to resist dominant meanings of Black women's sexuality and assign positive value and power to same-sex desire between Black women. Black women temporarily appropriate the spaces of more dominant groups and create their own queer utopian space where they are free to explore their sexuality with each other and foster the further development of Black women's autonomous and affirming same-sex sexual culture.

In recent decades, social scientists have turned their attention to queer sexual culture as an area oflegitimate study within academic circles, including the fields of anthropology, sociology, social geography and history. Early on, most of this research focused squarely on gay male public culture and space.

With time, interest in lesbian and women's queer public culture has developed more recently but remains largely neglected, especially sexual culture between women.

One major theme in works on public sexual culture is the boundary between public and private and that, although sexuality is often constructed as an activity which takes place (and belongs) ''behind closed doors," this is not the case for people's lived experience, especially that of sexual minorities.

Among the most well-known of such early investigations is Laud Humphreys'

1970 groundbreaking investigation of male same-sex sexual contact in a park public restroom. "Tearoom Trade" documented the customs, context and meanings around men's sexual activity in the public space, where served as a lookout during his research. This work didn't just confront issues around 3

ethics and privacy, it created a shock wave of awareness that such sexual cultures existed. The question of what is to be considered "public" and what is considered "private" infused the debate about Humphreys' work as well as investigating how sexual behavior is shaped as a "private" activity, to be kept

"behind closed doors." Studying how and when sexual activity and expression enters the "public" arena and why marginalized groups of people would risk ''being caught" reveals the public stigma they face through how they use public/private boundaries to keep their spaces of sexual culture safe and protected from interference while simultaneously providing at atmosphere of freedom and acceptance inside.

Gender, Race, Sexuality and Space

Explicit sexuality between Black women, for these spaces, shoulders a unique burden, read as particularly "deviant," when it comes to spatial practices, which, if discovered, could yield disastrous results (involuntary outing, community/employment shame, violence, etc.) This project will explore how Black women's appropriation of space presents particular challenges and risks and why that is the case. Gender, race and sexuality are crucial elements in the study of space when studying how Black women appropriate space for themselves for the purposes of same-sex sexual expression together. "Space" in this project refers to a place which carries a specific meaning, of significance because of particular human activities which take place there (Leap 1999}-but space is overwhelmingly heterosexualized, 4

white and male. Valentine (1992) articulates this overlayed meaning on space when he states, "the ability to appropriate and dominate places and hence influence the use of space by other groups is not just only the product of gender; heterosexuality is also powerfully expressed in space" (1992: 395).

So, when women appropriate space for same-sex community (and sexual expression), they are creating a haven away from homophobia as well as patriarchy (Valentine 1992). In the case of this project, space is being appropriated for Black women's same-sex erotic performances.

Cultural Geography and Public Space

This project asserts, as a fundamental premise to its study, that space is a social process and product where "culture" comes into full view, understood within a context of power and who gets to use space to represent themselves and their values. The work of Don Mitchell is of paramount use and applicability here, acknowledging first and foremost that "the idea of culture is not what people are doing; rather, it is the way people make sense of what they have done" (Mitchell 2000: 77) and yet, "culture" carries a "vague definition because it is only when there is a dispute, as long as it lasts, and depending on the strength exerted by dissenters [to proposed meanings] that words such as 'culture' ... receive a precise meaning ... In other words, no one lives in a 'culture' ... before he or she clashes with others" (Latour 1987: 201).

When such clashes take place over space, "one party proves victorious (for whatever reasons, but always having to do with gathering the power to make 5

its claims stick)" and then, that party's value and culture don't just become reified through space, ''they become reality" (Latour 1987: 201 ). The

"winning" culture's values, represented through spatial means, "take on an appearance of nature, they seem obvious and unchangeable ... the invocation of 'culture' becomes a means for representing relations of power" (Mitchell

2000: 77).

"In American history," Mitchell contends, "the admittance of women, the propertyless, and people of color into the formal ranks of 'the public' has been startlingly recent (and not yet really complete)" (Mitchell 2003: 132) and the disconnect between the public "sphere" and public "space" becomes clear when women, the propertyless and people of color attempt to use space. The call to be included as part of "the public" has allowed marginalized groups to claim a "right to the city," as Mitchell terms it, but the distinction between public sphere and public space is critical, given the importance of space for political struggle:

The public sphere in the sense that Habennas developed it and many of his critics have refined it is a universal, abstract sphere in which democracy occurs. The materiality of this sphere is, so to speak, immaterial to its functioning. Public space, meanwhile, is material. It constitutes an actual site, a place, a ground within and from which political activity flows. (Mitchell 2003: 133-134)

In essence, even if the public sphere as a concept promises inclusion and equality, this should not be taken to mean that this reliably translates to access to public space. Thus, "public space occupies an important- but contested- ideological position in democratic societies" (Mitchell 2003: 130) since it is 6

how "political movements can stake out the territory that allows them to be seen and heard" (Mitchell 2003: 129).

If, as Mitchell asserts, space is the result of a social process an the terrain upon which cultural conflicts take place, the next question to be addressed is (since space is gendered and sexualized) how lesbians define and establish their social space, particularly in urban settings. Knopp asserts that, although heterosexuality "is still often promoted as nothing less than the glue holding these spatial divisions oflabour (and indeed Western society) together ... these divisions of labour create single-sex environments in which homosexuality has the space, potentially, to flourish" (Knopp 1995: 149;

Knopp 1992). In other words, despite space being heterosexualized and gendered as male and despite public/private divides historically separating the genders in terms oflabor (men, outside the home; women, inside the home), this arrangement creates an opportunity for women's same-sex community to

"flourish," as Knopp puts it, under the radar.

While research on gay men's spatial occupation flourished, many theorists wrote that lesbians had "no territorial aspirations" (Castells 1983:

140) and pointed out that lesbians (much like heterosexual women) are less likely to own their own businesses due to economic disadvantage based on gender, and thus, lesbians bars are more scarce and more difficult to sustain.

"Ladies' night" events at other clubs have become far more standard (Wolfe

1992) to serve lesbian socializing needs. As such, many, including Adler and

Brenner (1992), Peake (1993), Valentine (1995) assert that lesbian 7

communities do exist, they're just more underground and less visible, leaving

"no trace of their sexualities on the landscape" and the presence oflesbian households is "recognized only by those in the know" (Bell and Valentine

1995: 6).

Tamar Rothenberg's work is an example of how social processes influence urban space (using Park Slope in New York City as a case study) to organize a group of women who share a sexual identity (lesbian), revealing distinct understandings of what a shared community space means to them, beyond the geographic approaches used in other research on queer communities. In fact, she finds that lesbians do create spaces of their own, just not readily visible by traditional means oflocating them. The next section will look briefly at what lesbians prioritize when forming community and how they select and identify the spaces they choose to call their own.

Urban Lesbian Community Spatial Formations

Knowing that space is shaped by social processes, it is important to understand the ways in which urban lesbian communities occupy and create spaces they mark as "lesbian." Her main findings about how a "lesbian community" was formed in Park Slope come into play when considering the ways in which Black same-sex desiring women's parties emerged nationally as well as in the Washington D.C. context. Tamar Rothenberg's chapter,

'"And She Told Two Friends: Lesbians Creating Urban Social Space," identifies these four aspects of "lesbian community" development in Park 8

Slope, revealing larger considerations of gender and economics when studying lesbians and spatial occupation.

Based on her work in the Park Slope area ofNew York City,

Rothenberg found that lesbians were able to create a presence in Park Slope because of their own unique sense ofcommunity (distinct from geographical boundaries and visibility), which supports the formation of social networks

(through social organizations, groups and clubs), the viability of "sweat equity" housing in Park Slope (low-cost living, a priority due to disadvantaged economic conditions based on gender) and, an aspect which will prove highly important in this project, a sense ofsafety in the knowledge one was among other lesbians (due to the ways in which women experience daily public oppressions as they physically move through the world). Rather than through the visible, identifiable spaces of "public and semi-public social places such as taverns and clubs," which have been "largely male domains"

(Rothenberg 1995: 168), lesbians found community in Park Slope through word-of-mouth network, by locating women's groups and lesbian-identified social clubs and an "imagined community" (Anderson 1991: 7), which is far less dependent on geographical boundaries.

During her research, she also found that Park Slope's reputation as "a lesbian community" traveled via word-of-mouth networking (an important aspect oflesbian social patterns she identifies) to help further mark the area as a place that is safe for lesbians to live. Citing also the study of a British city by Valentine (1993 ), issues of safety influence the ways in which lesbians get 9

together to socialize and the tradition of "home visits" allowed for safe lesbian

socializing as "there are so few public and 'private' spaces where lesbians can

feel comfortable being themselves" and thus, "having friends nearby becomes

all the more important" (Rothenberg 1995: 177; italics in original). Since

creating space is a social process, lesbians pursue the public and private

spaces which offer comfort and safety to socialize and be open about one's

sexuality, free of the public dangers women confront spatially (by virtue of

being a woman, compounded if one is read as lesbian).

What Rothenberg demonstrates is that, because lesbians often define

community differently than gay men and have their own priorities when

establishing a lesbian presence in an urban setting, their spatial organization is

not meant to be "visible" in the same ways that gay male presence on a

landscape may be detected. If space is shaped by the social (and vice versa)

and if lesbians define, identify and assemble their communities differently than do gay men, then one must go beyond the readily visible to find the ways

in which women socialize for same-sex community, culture and connectivity.

Lesbian spaces "behind closed doors" and neighborhoods identified as places where lesbians live (again, in homes with doors) only tells part of the

story of how lesbians use and occupy space. Exploring how lesbian desires can occupy the "asexual" public space of "the street," Gill Valentine finds that lesbians do deploy strategies to confront the naturalized heterosexual dominance of the street as well as notions of what "public space" is. 10

The (Lesbian) Sexuality of the Street

Gill Valentine understands "the street" as a place where the

"heterosexing of space is a performative act naturalized through repetition and regulation" (2005: 264), where, as Mitchell also asserts, public life reifies

"proper behavior" through heterosexual acts. Not through what might be considered "traditional sex acts" but as those coded as heterosexual: opposite sex people holding hands, advertising featuring opposite sex people expressing desire/attraction for one another to "piped music articulating heterosexual desires" (2005: 264). The cumulative affect is one of naturalized heterosexuality for the public space of the street.

As such, Valentine points out there are public laws which can be applied selectively to same-sex couples holding hands. However, when displays of same-sex coupling occur and interfere with the continual performance of the heterosexual street, even if the police may not be present to apply "public order" laws, citizens may take it upon themselves to enforce the hetero space of the street- through homophobic violence. Using strategies to negotiate the heterosexed space of the street, lesbians find other ways to identify themselves and each other and successfully subverting the reading of the street as "hetero only."

Valentine cites dress (butch-femme stylings, rainbow jewelry, etc.), absence of a wedding ring, references to lesbian icons in conversation or a reciprocated look between women, as able to produce "a small fissure in hegemonic heterosexual space" (Valentine 2005: 266). She contends that 11

such strategies have the benefit of both connecting with other lesbians in a space but also that such strategies have a high likelihood of going unnoticed by heterosexuals. Thus, "some lesbians therefore are actively using more 'in your face' tactics to challenge the stability of heterosexual productions of space" (2005: 268). Lesbian Avengers, for instance, are known for highly visible and confrontational activism, including targeting a tourist site of the memorial to Queen Victoria with banners declaring lesbian refusal to accept her famous denial oflesbian existence. These zaps provoked

"heteropatriarchal jeers of passersby and attempts to police such actions"

(2005: 268). Such actions are successfully transgressive as they "rupture the taken-for-granted heterosexuality of these spaces by disrupting the repetitive performances by the mall and the shopping street as heterosexual places and

(re)imagining/(re)producing them as queer sites" (2005: 269).

As Valentine shifts her inquiry into the public space of the street, the work of Corie Hammers on lesbian/queer bathhouse events in Toronto goes further to reveal that not only do lesbians create hidden spaces or disrupt hetero street space, they appropriate spaces designed for public sexual freedom that "belong to" others in order to create their own zones of sexual expression (however temporary such appropriation may be). Appropriation of space by same-sex desiring peoples for public sexual activity is often referred to as "queer utopian memory," particularly with reference to gay male public sexual culture, which allows people to "carve out a space for actual, living sexual citizenship" (Thomas 1996: 357). While queer utopian memory (and, 12

similarly, "queer utopian worldmaking" in Crimp 1989) is often a reference to an attempt to recapture a lost gay lifeworld before the devastation of

HN/AIDS, it is also used to describe the creation of queer dance clubs as

"worldmaking," not as the "creation of a bordered culture with recognizable laws, populated by homogenous subjects, but rather ... a production in the moment of a space of creative, expressive, and transformative possibilities"

(Buckland 2002: 4). Knowing that lesbians do create "queer utopian worlds" of their own (albeit in different ways than gay men do), they develop their own sexual culture through their use of space. Gendered notions of what form women's sexual desires take has allowed the spaces intended for sexual activity and expression to go unnoticed and ''under the radar," both culturally and in terms of academic research.

Lesbian/Queer Sexual Culture and Appropriated Space

Recently, scholarship on lesbians and their spaces has extended to lesbian sexual culture, an area of study largely undefined and unexplored, due to its relative spatial invisibility and gendered notions that lesbians are neither interested in nor pursue sexualized interactions in the form of public sex, strip shows or other gatherings where nudity, sexual behavior or desire is central to the proceedings. Adrienne Rich's "lesbian continuum" (1980) implies that every woman is potentially a lesbian, if she values connection to and support of her fellow sisters. What this sort of theorizing does, however, is desexualize lesbians, prioritizing women's cooperation and intimacy over the 13

ways in which women experience desire-- erasing the ways in which they are

sexually assertive to act on those desires, including venues for public sex.

Corie Hammers (2008), in her discussion oflesbian/queer public sexual

culture centered within Toronto bathhouses, notes that, in addition to the

downplaying of sex and desire (constructed as the gendered terrain of men),

there remains:

limited sexual entertainment infrastructure for and by women with what does exist being mostly underground, exclusive and thus, invisible; sexual desire has been equated with men ... [and] the very idea of 'public sex' and sexual cultures alongside 'lesbian/queer' has been incomprehensible (on social, psychological and biological grounds) and thus, ignored. (Hammers 2008: 2)

To do her fieldwork, Hammers went to appropriated gay male bathhouse

space, which is taken over once monthly or every three months for

lesbian/queer bathhouse events. There, women are free to engage in public

sex with one another, utilizing bathhouse spaces in a similar vein as men and

disrupting notions of lesbian culture as desexualized, expanding women's

sexual appetites for other women beyond the context of committed,

monogamous relationships.

In addition to disrupting gendered notions of women's sexual desire

for anonymous sex in a public space, Hammers understands the appropriated

bathhouse space as facilitating women's ability to articulate their sexual

desires for other women. In her work, Hammers understands space as

facilitating or inhibiting the social exchanges within the walls of the bathhouse, simply through existing to focus on and serve women's sexual 14

pleasure. She asserts, "I believe that besides providing participants sexual satiation without having to seek out sex, they give participants a feeling of entitlement to sexual pleasure ... there has never been a sexual entertainment infrastructure for women, to serve women's sexual needs" (Hammers 2008:

19). She goes on to argue that providing such space allows women to articulate same-sex desire, citing Frye's 1990 article, "Lesbian 'Sex.'" Frye contends, "Gay male sex ... is articulate ... Lesbian 'sex' as I have known it, most of the time I have known it, is utterly inarticulate .... I have, in effect, no linguistic community, no language, and therefore in one important sense, no

-knowledge" (1990: 311, italics in original). Thus, Black women's sexualized social spaces are integral to the "language" of addressing Black women's same-sex desire in the form of erotic performance parties, attended in person

(or, appropriately, in the flesh) in Washington D.C.

While I concede that Black women are not having genital sex in the spaces, as Valentine's (2005) examination of lesbian uses of the street illustrates above, Berlant and Warner (1998) understand that some sexµal publics "are organized around sex, but not necessarily sex acts in the usual sense" and include "queer zones and other worlds estranged from heterosexual culture" (1998: 547) adding, "heterosexuality involves so many practices that are not sex that a world in which this hegemonic cluster would not be dominant is, at this point, unimaginable." Nevertheless, Berlant and Warner immediately assert that, through interrogating what count as "public sex" acts, they are "trying to bring that world into being" (1998: 557). As 15

heterosexuality asserts itself as a dominant culture (beyond its "private sex acts"), it is important to recognize that queer culture "constitutes itself in many ways other than through the official publics of opinion culture and the state, or through the privatized forms normally associated with sexuality"

(1998: 558). When framed in these terms, Black women stripping naked for one another and bouncing inches from the faces of their adoring audience in a restaurant that routinely serves white yuppies during the week certainly counts as a public sex act.

Rothenberg, Valentine and Hammers located lesbian spatial community based on the shared sexual identity of the women in their work.

However, this project focuses on same-sex desire between Black women, rather than "lesbian" identity per se. This shift away from sexual identity toward desire is to emphasize the purpose of the space rather than the individual identities of the women who inhabit it during its designation as an erotic performance event space. My task is to understand the qualities of the space and the social interactions which take place there which allow Black women's erotic desire for Black women to emerge as visible activity-- rather than focus on the lack of a unified identity term (such as "lesbian") with which to describe the women who attend the events.

Research respondents referred to the events as "the parties" or "the clubs" and while they themselves may have used "lesbian" to describe themselves, neither respondents nor advertisements for the parties used words such as "lesbian" or "queer" to describe the parties. Throughout this project, 16

the terms "erotic performance" and "strip event" are used interchangeably, with the caveat that some events emphasize and move to "stripping" more quickly than others do, which can combine drag shows, lip-synching and acrobatic (fully clothed) dance before more explicit strip performances. Since my focus is on documenting and exploring the events they've created and the associated spatial practices rather than on personal identity terms, "same-sex desiring" (as admittedly limited as this term is) will serve as the descriptive term for the collective purpose of their parties in this project.

Traditional grammar rules say that when referring to the Black people, the "b" should be lowercase. However, throughout this project, I use "Capital

B Black" because it is more general and embracing of the range of diversity among Black people. Because the emphasis of the events is on appreciating the beauty and value of Blackness, I use the term "Black" and capitalize it, just as "African-American" is capitalized. Not all who identify as Black feel a social/spiritual/political connection to Africa; many audience members and some of my research respondents identified with a range of nationalities, including Cuba, the Caribbean, South American and Middle Eastern countries. I do not capitalize "white" because this term isn't a political identity the way "Black" is.

The reasons for my terminology choice stems from an enduring history of privilege and whiteness around the term "lesbian." Gamson (1995) notes that a construction of collective identity "is not only necessary for successful collective action, but that it is often an end in itself" Hunt and Benford 17

(2004) suggest that collective identity is a "shared sense of"we-ness" and collective agency" (2004: 440). Focusing on sexual liberation around a shared identity functioned as a strategy to pursue recognition and right, even as it obscured difference in class and race among same-sex desiring women. Thus, ' in this project, "same-sex desiring" will embrace a range of sexual identities, including "lesbian," "bisexual," "gay" and "dyke." Because the parties focus on Black same-sex desire, this term serves to encompass the spirit of the parties rather than attempt to define individual identities or connect to a larger, more visible, white-dominated history and effort to secure rights.

"Queer theory has highlighted difference in order to expose, problematize, transgress, and hopefully transcend unmarked norms with the aim of challenging binarism and sexual and gender categories" (Buckland

2002: 5-6) and, while I will use some queer theoretical ideas (such as processes of"queer utopian worldmaking" and their intentions), it is not used as a collective identity term for the Black women in this project. As Berube

(2003) and Boykin (1996) point out in their research, identity terms for same- sex desiring people constitute an ever-changing terrain of meaning and definition. Particularly for Black same-sex desiring women, sexual identity markers such as "lesbian," "gay," ''bisexual," "transgender," or "queer" may be more associated with white same-sex desire. 18

Queer and Quare, Identity and Theory

"Queer" is an especially problematic term for communities of color.

"Queer" as a modem descriptor as an ''umbrella term" for non-heterosexual peoples traces its roots back to a move to reject heteronormative value structures and to unify sexually marginalized groups in a confrontation of the increasingly pathologized association between gay identity and AIDS in the

1980s. In the beginning of the pandemic, as AIDS decimated gay men and

Blacks, 'queers' and racial minorities would seem to have much in common and, indeed, one of the major political strategies in common between Queer

Nation and the Civil Rights Movement was to coalesce power around a singular facet of identity and erase other facets (class, gender, etc.) in the interest of resisting oppression in a ''unified" way. For queer politics, sexual liberation was the agenda.

Queer theorists worked to bring gender into the discussion of a queer sexuality (such as Butler, Sedgwick, Fuss) but ultimately, despite the claim that "queer" embraces a multiplicity of identity and for all the disruption that

"queer" invokes, queer rested mainly on sexual object choice- a white same­ sex desiring male object choice, especially. In fact, the word "queer" originated as a means to divide white male 'queers' from 'normal' men on the basis of gender status behavior, coded as masculine or feminine. George

Chauncey notes that "self-identification of men as 'queer' [emerged] only around the middle of the twentieth century; before then, most men were so labeled only if they had displayed a much broader inversion of their ascribed 19

gender status by assuming the sexual and other cultural roles ascribed to

women" (1994: 13). Thus, "the ascendancy of gay reflected ... a reorganization

of sexual categories and the transition from an early twentieth-century culture

divided into 'queers' and 'men' on the basis of gender status to a late

twentieth-century culture divided into 'homosexuals' and 'heterosexuals' on

the basis of sexual object choice" (1994: 23). In addition to its historical

connection to whiteness and maleness, queer also finds itself historically

associated with being middle class membership. 'Fairies' were marginalized,

effeminate gay men who were also often paid for sex with other men (who

retained their hetero-masculine status). Fairies were a part of working class

cultural sites, especially drinking establishments and work in the sex trade

during tum-of-the-century New York City. On the other hand, 'queer' men,

"embodied the general middle-class preference for privacy, self-restraint, and

lack of self-disclosure, and for many men this constituted part of its appeal"

(1994: 106). "Queer" is rooted in a white, male, same-sex desiring, middle­

class history.

Eve Sedgwick and Judith Butler both posit queer studies as analogous to (but separate from) critical race theory, which implies that studying them in isolation is possible (and that sexuality and race are not intertwined).

Although Butler asserts that the existence of homosexuality in every racial category makes same-sex sexuality a connecting factor across racial lines, this assertion does not adequately account for the ways in which raced, sexual and gendered identities cohabitate and overlap. Yet, for all its emphasis on 20

sexuality, queer cannot abandon sex since, as Sedgwick reminds us, "given the historical and contemporary force of the prohibitions against every same- sex sexual expression, for anyone to disavow those meanings, or to displace them from the term's definitional center, would be to dematerialize any possibility of queerness itself' (Sedgwick 1993: 8).

Although "queer" was intended as "an identity to end identity," imagined to be capable of expanding and blurring categories as it simultaneously embraced all of them, it still focused on sexual object choice as its primary mode of difference. In some ways, "queer" merely reinforced a divide between itself as outcast and an idealized, unattainable ultra- heterosexuality, further purifying that which was already sacred. Lisa Duggan points out that "any gay politics based on the primacy of sexual identity defined as unitary and 'essential,' residing clearly, intelligibly and unalterably in the body or psyche, and fixing desire in a gendered direction, ultimately represents the view from the subject position '20th-century Western white gay male"' (Duggan 1991: 1). Sagri Dhairyam argues a fundamental difference between the cultural boundaries which contain heterosexuality and those which function to construct race:

in Sedgwick's logic, queers constitute the greater threat because they are endemic to the heterosexual structure; the boundaries that define straightness can never be quite sure they are adequately placed. In contrast, the boundaries of racial difference, incessantly inscribed on the colored body, ironically erases the cultural politics that maintain a dominant white culture in the United States. (Dhairyam 1994: 31) 21

"Queer" may highlight mutual struggles which do unite across identities (for instance, exploitive structures embedded in capitalism), but any struggles which we may share do not impact, benefit or disadvantage each of us equally or in the same ways. While "queer" attempts to "destabilize a regime of heterosexual sameness, in the process, these [queer academic] analyses run the danger of erasing the experiential and affective realities of alternative sexualities and/or raced communities, which must constantly struggle not only to affirm their pleasures but to describe their terrors

(Dhariyam 1994: 33-34). Thus, while it asserts the deconstruction of binaries and unmarking of difference, "queer" has dangerous implications for

"lesbians, gays, bisexuals, and trans gendered people of color who are committed to the demise of oppression in its various forms [but who] cannot afford to theorize their lives based on 'single-variable' politics" (Johnson and

Henderson 2005: 5).

Despite (and because of) the disconnect between the possibilities of

'queer' and the realities of 'queer' (including its failure to actually destabilize categories and binaries), a group of scholars assembled an anthology entitled,

Black Queer Studies, in an effort to investigate the potential of "queer" sensibilities for Black commliriities. The anthology begins with an acknowledgement that "queer" carries good intentions and may still hold political wisdom, even if it does not deliver its promise of collapsing difference. Cathy Cohen sees "queer" as an exposure of multiple sites of oppression and a step in the right direction: 22

For those of us who find ourselves on the margins, operating through multiple identities and thus not fully served or recognized through traditional single-identity-based politics, theoretical conceptualizations of queerness hold great political promise. For many of us, the label 'queer' symbolizes an acknowledgement that through our existence and everyday survival we embody sustained and multi-sited resistance to systems (based on dominant constructions of race and gender) that seek to normalize our sexuality, exploit our labor, and constrain our visibility. (Cohen 2005: 24; emphasis mine)

E. Patrick Johnson offers the variation of"quare studies" as a way to integrate class and race with studies of sexuality. "Quare," Johnson posits, is

"a theory of and for gays and lesbians of color," allowing us to "speak across identities" as well as to articulate them, to "critique stable notions of identity and, at the same time, to locate racialized and class knowledges" (Johnson

2005: 127).

This project is (I hope) far more "quare" than "queer." I am utilizing some of what queer theory his to offer (such as the notion of the "queer utopian" space) in my analysis but what I have found is that Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance parties in Washington D.C. developed out of a particular context, a particular historical moment and for reasons which are specific, for reasons which, when all of these facets come together, make sense. I argue, ultimately, that given the context, given the histories and understanding what Black same-sex desiring women are seeking, their events are the inevitable result of their efforts to meet their unique needs and goals. 23

Sites of Investigation

All three sites of this project (Cada Vez, Club Levels and Wet) are

located in historically Black neighborhoods in Washington D.C., were hosts to

episodic events (held monthly or semi-monthly) with a dramatic increase in

offerings during annual Black Pride celebrations in lat May. With the

exception of Soft N Wet Afternoons, the sites of this project are not strip clubs

but nightclubs and restaurants appropriated to become erotic performance

sites for events which highlight and foster Black same-sex desire between

women. Because the spaces feature performances, the spaces themselves

must offer at least one main focal point for performance and the remaining

space must be able to facilitate the audience view and (and important aspect of

this project), audience participation and contact with the dancers. I refer to

the actual venue names in this project for a few reasons. All three of the

venues no longer exist and, as such, the project now documents their histories

and the events that took place there. Also, Soft N Wet is the most well-known

and well-publicized of the events in Washington and the promoter, Ms. Vicki, has identified herself publicly as such, been interviewed multiple times in the

Washington Blade about the events.

Cada Vez was a restaurant that hosts social and erotic performance events for Black same-sex desiring women. On the fourth Sunday of each month, S&P Productions hosts an evening Black same-sex desiring erotic performance event featuring drag kings and lipsynchers and dancers, usually with a drag queen emcee. Audience members are seated at tables and in 24

booths, while the central restaurant floor is cleared for performances. The

event starts with a performance by the drag queen emcee, proceeding to drag

kings and lipsynchers, culminating with scantily clad or partially nude stripper

routines.

Club Levels was a nightclub space on Montana A venue, featuring a

Saturday night party for Black same-sex desiring women, produced by

BuckWild Events. Audience members stood near the dance floor and

strippers emerge throughout the evening and perform on the dance floor for

tips. Before the strip performances, audiences danced on the dance floor to

music played by a DJ. At a designated time, the dance floor clears and

strippers perform. Some do choreographed routines with many dancers

performing together. Some dancers do solo routines. The event builds to

headliner strip performers such as Oohzee and Sweet Goldie.

"Soft N Wet Afternoons" took place at Wet in Southeast DC, produced

by Sophisticated Ladies Productions (SLP), on the last Saturday of each

month. Wet was primarily known as a dedicated gay male strip club with

elevated stages, poles and a shower against one wall with mirrors. Soft N Wet

most resembled a strip club environment, the space designed specifically for

erotic performances, multiple sites for audience watching and being able to

get close to dancers, with dancers having the most mobility in the space:

across the bar, around the shower stage, along the side stage near the DJ booth. Soft N Wet was touted as the longest running Black women's party in the United States and Black women from across the country traveled to attend 25

this monthly party, especially in late May for the annual Black Pride

celebration in Washington D.C.

Parties Are "Strip Club Like"

Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance spaces can resemble a strip club, either due to the physical arrangement of the structures

in the space (namely, elevated stages with vertical poles for dancing) or just by the social arrangement of audience members and dancers in the space

(informal, centralized, agreed upon "performance space" with audience watching). Like traditional strip club spaces dedicated to erotic performances,

central to the spaces is a performance area, where dancers perform to music provided by a DJ, surrounded by a standing or seated viewing audience, whether by design or by default. Performers can be seen wearing tight-fitting clothing with snaps and string-ties allow for easy removal (or, at least, the . promise of easy removal to the audience) and acrobatic movements demonstrate physical prowess and often reference the sexual (the degree to which is dependant on the laws of the state which govern that club): crawling on all fours, legs in "splits," squatting and bouncing, "grinding" the hips and fondling one's own body (breasts, buttocks, genitals, etc.). Meanwhile, the audience ''tips" the performer (or, in some cases, performers) as she dances­ and, sometimes, through tipping "a lot," an audience members becomes part of the spectacle with the dancer. Audience members ''tip" with cash to express appreciation for and approval of the performer's act. If the audience 26

member tips "a lot," she may become part of the show with the performer

(often, whether the audience member is prepared to do so or not): the

performer may wrap her legs around the audience member, simulate a sex act

with her, pay extended attention to her or otherwise bring her into the

spotlight. In such cases, a deeper and more personal attraction or even a

secret connection (or relationship) is sometimes inferred. Audience members

can accrue status in the space, by creating a sense that they have special

access to dancers or get special treatment because of their spending power,

sexual potency or charming personality. Similar interactions are well

documented in studies of traditional strip clubs where women dance for men

(Brockert 2002; Liepe-Levinson 2002; Frank 2003; Eaves 2004).

While the activities and behavior observed at Black same-sex desiring

women's strip parties resemble those found in traditional strip clubs, this

project will focus on how the parties are more connected to, informed by

Black women's creation of public sexual culture and social traditions of secret

space. If one were to focus on looking for "Black lesbian strip clubs" and

looked among traditional strip clubs for them, one would conclude that Black

women do not assemble anywhere to watch each other strip. The erotic

performance parties are modern versions of the histories of Black women

creating their own secret spaces for socializing to resist racism, same-sex

desire and appropriations of space to allow safe sexual expression (against

sexism and homophobia) and our understandings of women's spatial practices in general. This is not to say that research about traditional (and, for that 27

matter, gay male) strip clubs doesn't inform the interactions observed at Black same-sex desiring women's strip parties, such as customer tipping and pole dancing. Rather, the literature on traditional strip clubs can only serve as a starting point for understanding the reasons why Black women create "strip club like" events for expressing same-sex desire visibly and publicly.

Strip Clubs and Academic Research

In the last twenty years, strip clubs have become an increasingly viable topic of study for academics and, although the debate still rages on about whether stripping is "empowering" or "exploitive" in terms of women's lives as dancers, more recent works have pushed the dialogue into examinations of male customer motivations (Frank 2003), performance studies (Liepe­

Levinson 2002) and into the broader cultural implications of the sex industry

(Agustin 2005), resisting the tendency to either valorize or condemn stripping.

A cultural studies approach, as Agustin suggests, allows us to contextualize erotic cultural practices and examine "intersections with art, ethics, consumption, family life, entertainment, sports, economics, urban space, sexuality, tourism and criminality, not omitting issues ofrace, class, gender, identity, and citizenship" and the resulting research allows us to "try to reveal how our societies distinguish between activities considered normatively

'social' and activities denounced as morally wrong" (Agustin 2005: 681).

While there have been major strides in moving the dialogue about strip clubs beyond theories and arguments over why women become strippers, 28

there remains oveiwhelming attention to heteronormative, Anglo-centric, traditional strip club venues and, though they do occur in such venues, scant mention of same-sex interactions talcing place inside. Frank's ethnography makes clear that there are female patrons in strip clubs (some looking at male performers, some looking at women performers) and she explains why she decided to focus on male patrons:

Strip clubs do not cater only to heterosexual males, of course. Numerous clubs around the country feature male exotic dancers and cater to a female clientele, a homosexual male clientele, or both. Lesbian, bisexual and heterosexual women may also visit clubs featuring female dancers. These populations and practices are significant and cannot be ignored when contemplating the changes that have occurred in the realm of adult entertainment in recent years. In this project, however, my focus remains on men who repeatedly visit strip clubs featuring female dancers, as this particular gendered pattern remains the most prominent scale and scope and allows me to draw on my own experiences working as an exotic dancer. (Frank 2003: xxiii­ xxiv)

Katherine Liepe-Levinson made a similar choice in Strip Show and writes that, although she "attended gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender strip events along with the 'straight' shows," when she began her project, ultimately, her "decision to focus on primarily white heterosexual. .. exotic dance events was ... [t]o make dominant heterosexuality 'strange"' (Liepe-

Levinson 2002: 4). Her work resonates with a recent move to interrogate power and hegemonic forces, particularly whiteness, among academics

("studying up"). While these pivotal works acknowledge that expressions of same-sex desire at strip performances occur (and that same-sex desiring strip events exist in their own right), the researchers ultimately focused on the most 29

observable, accessible type of strip performance. I have compared Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance parties with traditional strip club spatial interactions elsewhere (Frank and Carnes: in press). Ultimately,

"while stripping-or other forms of adult entertainment-is implicated in the same structures of inequality as other forms oflabor and leisure, there are also specificities in the meaning of its consumption that must be considered"

(Frank and Carnes: in press) and those meanings around Black same-sex desiring women's consumption of their events is what this project is all about.

Very recently, studies on gay male strip clubs are emerging to widen the discussion around gay male sexual culture to include same-sex male contact, often providing men with an initial, safe foray into exploring same­ sex desire among men. Like traditional strip clubs, the space allows for varying degrees of contact arid participation, including sitting in the comer to simply be in the space to sitting at the stage to tip, chat and interact with the dancers and a de-emphasis on identity removes any pressure to call one's desires "gay" or identify oneself as "gay." Craig Seymour's All I Could Bare

(2008) tells of his experiences as a dancer-turned-university-professor. His in-depth memoir confronts stereotypes of the gay male strip club as a place of impersonality, sadness and shame, reshaping it as a space of safety, acceptance, as a site of emotional support and tenderness between men.

Importantly, he documents a contested area for gay sexual culture in D.C. no longer exists and has since been "cleared out" for the Nationals Stadium (a different kind of"funzone," to be sure). As others follow Seymour's high- 30

profile work, increased attention and rigor to gay male strip club studies will continue to grow as an emerging area of study in the academic inquiry around the sex industry.

Project Setting

This project documents Black women's same-sex sexual culture in

Washington D.C. and helps add to Seymour's documentation of Southeast

D.C.'s gay funzone area of strip clubs, bathhouses and dance clubs.

Washington D.C. provides the backdrop for these three sites of erotic performances events and it is significant for many reasons. ~ashington D.C. is identified as the largest, longest running originator of Black Pride events, dating back to 1975 at the Clubhouse, a club where "everyone was welcome"

(Gay 2007: 7 5) with most of the patrons being Black gay men and lesbians.

Black Pride came from a party hosted at the Clubhouse called "The Children's

Hour ... attended by hundred of African-American gay men and lesbians"

(Gay 2007: 75). In 1991, a group who formed to take up the cause after many of the Clubhouse staff died from AIDS, created the Sunday Black Pride festival, which provided the basis for the annual Memorial Day institution which continues today in Washington D.C. While Memorial Day is the locus ofD.C.'s Black gay culture, events typically occur throughout May and can continue into early June. Many U.S. cities have their own annual Black Pride events at various times of the summer months but all followed the original

Washington D.C. tradition, which continues to be the largest and most well- 31

known. It is not uncommon for Black same-sex desiring people from across the country to travel to D.C. arid attend Black Pride events.

However, Washington D.C. is, simultaneously, a tourist town, the capital city of the United States of America as well as an urban area inhabited by people and, as such, its dual role in national politics as well as being home to many people shapes the Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance events which take place here. "Washington was not developed as an industrial or commercial center, and its history has been marked by a relative absence of manufacturing activity ... Washington was specifically designed as a capital city," (Farrar 2008: 13) as a "symbolic city where the values of the Nation are on public display" (NCPC 1997: 61). A capital city has a symbolic function to "create citizens" by educating them about "their membership in, as well as their responsibility to, a nation-state" (Farrar 2008:

15). Thus, there is a tension between the capital city as ambassador to, representative of the American people-- and the day to day lives, sexual desires and, in the case of this project, the parties of its citizens.

Many tourists visit Washington D.C. for its monuments, which are the

"crucial conduits of symbolic power," to "make citizens out of an otherwise heterogeneous, unmanageable population ... to offer every member of the society an image of that membership to imitate" (Farrar 2008: 52). In other words, Washington D.C.'s landscape is infused with images of patriotic and nationalist ideology. Its monuments "hail" both its visiting tourists and its city residents to mirror the Citizenship offered-even ifthe monuments do not 32

reflect the citizens to whom they offer membership. For example, African­

Americans helped construct the Capitol building and cast the Status of

Freedom on the Capitol dome in 1863, before African-Americans were even

considered people in the United States Constitution. Washington D.C. 's

monuments represent an idealized version of the patriotic citizen (George

Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Thomas Jefferson, etc.) and, despite their

being white, male and property-owning, they convey their expectations of

obedience, loyalty, honor and sacrifice to the country by all those who lay

eyes on them (regardless of the realities of injustice, abuses of power, etc. that

those citizens may endure). All three of the Black same-sex desiring women's

erotic performance events in this project take place in Washington D.C. As

this project will demonstrate, the events must grapple with these tensions and

the cultural incompatibility between monuments to proper American

citizenship (white male political power) and Black women's desire to get

down with each other.

Researcher Position, Methodology and Definitions

I am a white, feminist and bisexual woman in a committed, co­ habiting, monogamous relationship with a biological male while I was in the field as well as writing the project. During my undergraduate years at Purdue

University, I was a stripper at a small, working class strip club for men, situated near the major shopping mall and surrounded by the factories which dominated Lafayette's economy and landscape. Throughout my nine 33

consecutive years in graduate school, finishing an MA in Women's and

Gender Studies and starting immediately on a Ph.D. in Anthropology, my scholarly and personal identities have grown increasingly intertwined as I pursued research and fieldwork in anthropological studies of gender and sexuality. Increasingly, feminism and anti-racism find themselves working in concert to understand lived experiences of racism, sexism, homophobia as well as critical studies of heteronormativity, gender privilege and whiteness, understanding that our research, field experiences and conclusions are filtered through our identities and social positions. As a white person, representing

Black cultural histories and social interactions in this project (particularly secret interactions of a sexually-charged nature), it is a risky and daunting task to write the content of my analysis and experiences in the spaces I studied.

Because of the histories of white people defining Black sexuality to suit their own purposes of power (histories which I include and explore in this project), it would (perhaps) be far safer, academically, to stick to spaces over which I had more social claim- to study traditional strip clubs where whiteness prevailed, to study white lesbian nightclubs or something else along these lines.

However, any anthropological project demands that the investigator situate her/himself since we acknowledge that our work is not neutral or objective; and thus, I situate myself and accept that I may tell only part of the story of Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance parties. It is my sincere hope that my telling aids in the understanding of Black women's 34

appropriated spaces for public sexual culture and world.making. Having said that, I also limited my telling of personal stories from the field or from my stripper days in the manuscript. This project is about how sociopolitical struggles take shape through appropriated space and, like the events themselves, the purpose ofthis project is to place Black women at the center.

I am a former stripper and danced at Filly's Gentleman's Club, a traditional strip club (topless) in Lafayette, Indiana from 1998 to 1999. My own experiences inform my perspective on erotic performances, women removing their clothes for money, sex work generally and public sexual culture. I come to this project with a firm belief that there is nothing inherently dangerous, damaging or immoral about stripping, sex work, creating or viewing pornography, same-sex desire, gender diversity or public sexual culture. In fact, I am keenly aware of the arguments that are used against us to shame, silence and erase us; I am quick to dispute them. While criticisms of the industry and practice are needed to improve working conditions, etc. and I support such inquiry and action, I am far more interested in the whys and hows of strip clubs, strip club-like events and public sexual culture rather than debate about whether such venues should exist and whether people should participate. The fact is that people do participate and I am interested in why.

I interviewed twenty women who voluntarily identified themselves as participants in, supporters of or planners for Black performance events for women in the life at Cada Vez, Wet (for Soft N Wet Afternoons) and Club 35

Levels events. Most frequently, I worked with someone I knew who could serve as a point of entry, usually an event promoter or emcee--someone prominent in the group who was well known and well resp~cted. I offered a trade of film footage of events or professional-level editing/finishing of footage in exchange for a one hour interview on film. Voice recorded interviews were also done and participants were compensated for their time.

Additionally, I set up a website in January of 2005

(michellecames.net) to solicit interviews and provide information about the study as well as a space for event listings and community links. I also handed cards with my contact information at the events and enclosed them in payment envelopes for interviews, for the research participants to distribute to other potential participants s/he may know. In July of2005, I printed postcards, similar to the ones distributed at events to advertise upcoming events, to get the word out about my study, the film and the website. These postcards were left alongside the event advertising postcards to target audience members, promoters and performers for research interviews.

It is important to keep in mind that participation in the project is more likely to happen ifthe events are important to the participant, whether audience member or promoter, which is why I also asked about obstacles and changes over time. Promoters were especially curious about the project and would "sell" their events to me as "the best" and "the original," that my project could not be complete unless I included a discussion of their particular events and the dancers they featured. 36

Interviewing dancers/performers presented a distinct challenge. Many

dancers are working throughout the week at a variety of events, sometimes

requiring travel. In some cases, dancers were hesitant to participate due to

concerns about privacy ("My family doesn't know I'm gay and they don't

know I dance" or a desire to maintain their mystique for their fans, etc.) In a

stroke of luck, just before data analysis began, a documentary film titled A

Taste ofOohzee came out, including performance footage and answers to the

questions I was seeking. Oohzee is the stage name of the most talked-about

black exotic performer, most often cited name when audience members were

asked about their favorite dancer. She is the headliner that packs the club full

of women-and the dancer I wanted most to interview. Her interview in this

film is crucial to my understanding of the ways in which a performer can

ascend to making her living as the most popular performer at black strip

events for women and I cite her words in the film to illuminate the role of dancers at strip events.

Film also plays an important role in this project. I shot events at Cada

Vez for the year of 2005, using a digital video camera and equipment borrowed from the university. I also shot Black Gay Pride events such as outdoor performances, drag shows and concerts as well as the Ms. Cada Vez competition (performers compete for various titles through dance routines, modeling clothing and gender impersonation). Additionally, I filmed events as a favor to friends I developed over my field time--everything from a 37

videogram for Oprah to a theater performance of a play in which a respondent was an actor.

Film footage helped me in a variety of ways. In the beginning, shooting film provided me with a role. I was "camera girl" and the camera often served as a conversation piece, legitimated my presence as I was often seen coordinating with promoters to set up the film equipment. This stamped my presence as approved and anticipated to onlookers and greatly increased social contact with audience members and performers, who would often ask for copies of the event. I could then offer an interview in exchange for free event copies, which worked very well to solicit data for the project.

Originally, I had envisioned the film footage to become a documentary but three issues led me to use the footage differently. First, the task of writing a dissertation and shooting a film was daunting. Second, toward the end of my fieldwork, one documentary was released about a popular entertainer at strip events (A Taste of Oohzee) and another is now in the works about one of the clubs. Third, as I mentioned the documentary to research participants and in the communities generally, more and more eventgoers and planners would indicate that the documentation was more important than a documentary­ just having the events on film to be able to watch later was the highest priority. So, all three elements led me ultimately away from a documentary film per se.

The footage still serves an important visual purpose for the project and beyond. The visual record of the events allowed me to follow my 38

observations ~hrough the footage. If I noticed something in the October footage, I could return to the January footage and see when that started rather than trying to reconstruct memory. I uncovered many patterns and .

phenomena that I did not see when I was new to the environment and the footage enabled me to track changes and find other examples of what I saw

(or not). I also plan to use clips, loaded onto my website, to serve as visual examples of specific traditions and rituals in the strip events, to accompany the text of the dissertation. So, throughout the written dissertation, there can be web links for the reader to witness the phenomenon I discuss. Finally, the footage serves as an historical record. Organizations like the Rainbow History

Project in Washington D.C. continually gather and preserve LGBTQ histories in its various forms, including through film. For the eventgoers, performers, promoters and for those who preserve D.C. 's LGBTQ histories, the footage is an archive of a little-studied (but, as this project will argue, critically important) cultural and social event.

Chapter Overview

I begin in Chapter Two by questioning the accessibility of a

"democratized" sexual public sphere by examining an ad featured on the inside of the cover of the May 2007 issue of She magazine, a national lesbian magazine: a busty, blonde, white woman, reclines seductively across the page, inviting women into two traditional strip clubs in Florida where men are entertained by performing women. According to this ad's large headline, "all 39

ladies are welcome," they do not need a male escort and they can enjoy

strippers, right alongside men for, ostensibly, the same reasons that men go­

to watch women perform erotically and be lavished with their attentions.

While strip clubs have greater public exposure than ever before, enjoy less

stigma and marginalized sexualities are asserting themselves more visibly

than ever.• the notion of"striptease culture" and a "democratized sexual public

sphere" is grounded in the Habermasian notion of the public sphere as an

idealized, equal-access space for talking back and free expression of opinions

and perspectives. Simply put, everyone does not enjoy full access to

striptease culture- and enjoying access and visibility does not necessarily

translate into acceptance, full rights and the ability to have one's sexual

identity or perspective be respected or valued in the larger cultural context.

How Black same-sex desiring women talk back to this exclusion from

the dominant public sphere and public space is via the creation of their own

spatial appropriation practices and events. Chapter Three traces the lineage of

Black same-sex desiring women's strip events to secret parties where Black

women revised meanings around their bodies as pleasure-experiencing vessels

under their control. This party history intertwines with corporeal meanings of

Black women's sexuality as it is mythologized in the United States (as wild, primitive, hypersexual) and Black women's resistance to that construction through assertions of control over their bodies as capable of experiencing pleasure on their own terms with each other. Creating a space of one's own to experience and redefine one's own sexuality has a long history for man 40

working class Black women, dating back to conditions of slavery, when the notion of their "wild" sexuality originated to physically, psychologically, emotionally and sexually oppress many Black women. Because their bodies were often defined as work-producing, child-producing and profit-producing for others during slavery, the creation of such spaces was highly significant and important to the Black people who created and used them- and especially

for the Black women who did- allowing them to dispute and resist public notions of what Blackness is, to provide respite from racism, to indulge in leisure practices-but always with a vigilant eye to those who might discover or judge.

Concerns over these secret spaces stemmed from a sense of the loss of systemic control over Black women's bodies, especially in terms of their

sexuality. For working class Black women, choosing one's own sexual partner was an act ofliberation after slavery- and many Black women did so as an assertion of freedom from sexual brutality, forced sex with masters or with other slaves for the purposes of producing more slaves. Being free meant having sex because one wanted to- and to select one's own partner meant she was free. On the other hand, Black middle-class women sought to enhance

Black women's moral standing in the eyes of each other, the Black community at large and white men and women who still carried the negative, animalistic image of Black women's sexuality. This struggle between a unified, positive ideal of Black femininity and the individual Black women seeking her own sexual life and fulfillment continues today and influences the 41

ways in which Black same-sex desiring women's strip events function, the purposes they serve for Black women. The parties continue the traditions/histories and further development of the Black public sphere by creating spaces away from white surveillance, designed expressly to avoid interference and enable Black peoples to define their bodies, their sexualities and themselves/or themselves. However, community pressures to silence

.one's sexuality and conform to "home codes" of Black commwity · expectations results in secret spatial practices where Black women's bodies can move and desire as they wish. Thus, erotic parties seek protection, not just from a mainstream white gaze, but also from middle/upper class Black women's expectation of sexual silence in to put the "community first."

Chapter Four delves into the research sites themselves and the complexities of how and why spaces are selected. The internal and external struggles over space and its meanings for the parties is revealed through what the spaces are asked to provide for the Black women during the parties.

There are conflicting motivations for creating and supporting Black same-sex desiring women's strip events and th~ various motivations for promoters, dancers, etc. in terms of their involvement are perceived differently among audience members and other promoters. The decisions over how the events are managed reveal larger political implications of the events, the ongoing dialogue over what the events' "true" purpose is, in terms of its authentic reason for being. Motivations for creating events with the intention of "for the good of the community" are read much more positively and judged as better 42

quality than events created to ''make a buck" or "just to party." Promoters and dancers must negotiate how their motivations are perceived: they must be able to stay afloat and be able to continue to participate (by making enough money) without being perceived to be taking advantage ofthe audience members, performers, etc. or encouraging unhealthy socializing (such as, drinking alcohol) or "meaningless" events ('just strippers"). Chapter Four argues that their use and appropriation of space is strategic in terms of when group/collective identity is prioritized, when notions of the "solidified Black community" identity and agreement on what the Black community needs outweigh the needs of individual Black women. Black same-sex desiring women's erotic parties operate along a contested boundary between a unified

"Black community" and what is best for the group (i.e. public representations of Black peoples deemed as positive or constructive) and fulfilling the needs of individual Black women (i.e. the profit motivations of a dancer or promoter).

Chapter Five explores the use of space at parties and how space and the social mutually shape one another to allow Black women to experience relief from cultural pressures and expectations around heteronormativity and downplaying their sexuality to "uplift" the image of Black women and Black peoples generally. Collective rituals at the parties, such as group stepping, birthday celebrations, the role of the emcee and the techniques of tipping performers, play an important role at Black same-sex desiring women's erotic parties, reinforcing the safety ofjoining in with the group as well as the option 43

for audience members to gain status and visibility as an individual. By cultivating a space of resistance, where Black women are central, where sexual openness between them is normalized and these elements help to grant permission to participate and form group connections, rather than foster divisions rooted in judgment over "looking bad" for being a Black woman expressing sexual enthusiasm in front of others. Chapter Five explores the crucial role of the emcee, as well as emcee techniques for setting the tone, creating a norm of sexual expression/openness, techniques for eliciting expressive behavior and appropriating heteronormative hip-hop imagery in service to Black women's same-sex desire. The emcee's role is that of permission-giver, allowing Black women to ''break sexual silences" expected of them, to create a safe and affirming atmosphere. This chapter explores why the emcee is so important to the success of the parties, what they represent metaphorically and culturally.

Chapter Six analyzes the current state of the parties and Black same­ sex desiring women's erotic freedoms in terms of two major, powerful forces which impact Black same-sex desiring women's erotic parties: political­ spatial (venue closure and event relocation as a result of the financial interests of the city) and political-social (national scale fights for sexual freedom and equal citizenship rights for same-sex identified peoples, including the management of assimilationist images of LGBTQ people as "respectable").

At the same time the physical spaces of host venues were closing down and events attempted to relocate, the parties appeared in the public sphere: the 44

Village Voice in April 2007 published an article written by Chloe Hilliard, expressing "concerns" about Black lesbian women seeking out male-like pleasures at their underground parties in Brooklyn, New York (particularly around hip-hop imagery and sensibilities, gender presentation proximal to

Black male ''thugs"). The article criticized the events, using alarmist arguments very similar to those used against gay men in their pursuit of sexual freedom in bathhouses, public parks and strip clubs. The article layered the added element that Black women should not pursue such party pleasures and hip-hop-informed gender presentations because they are "at the expense of' other women and harmful to women generally and that these Black women are contributing to "the negativity of hip-hop culture," wielding it as a weapon against each other. By putting the event out into the mainstream public sphere, concluding that the imagery of the "hard thuggish" working class

Black masculinity she saw performed at the event automatically meant these

Black women were sexist- that they literally wanted to "be men"- Hilliard's article demonstrates the risks that the parties face in exposure as well as the fact that the sexual public sphere is certainly not "democratized," as McNair asserts in Chapter Two. Ultimately, Chapter Six will conclude with my own analysis of the article, the underlying assumptions it makes and how such ideas serve to limit Black women's sexual and gender freedom in general.

This isn't to say that the events are without criticism or cannot be criticized; rather, looking at the deeper meanings of why gives a fuller picture of the events and investigations of erotic culture must move beyond the well-worn 45

questions of empowennent or exploitation. Understanding why people develop and desire their own erotic spaces to express themselves is far more useful and meaningful-as well as generally revelatory about the production of Black women's erotic culture and the purposes it serves.

In sum, this project questions the claim that traditional strip clubs a~d the mainstream sexualized public sphere are (or could be) fully

"democratized" to accommodate Black women's need for safety and privacy.

It understands the events Black women create as born out of and reflective of

Black women's cultural tradition and their histories of secret events, designed to provide protection, acceptance and freedom (however temporarily) under difficult conditions. Black women's same-sex desiring women's erotic parties serve to help Black women redefine their sexuality as freedom, pleasure as entitlement, women-loving-women as powerful-and themselves as desirable, sexy, affinned, loved. The parties contribute to all areas of their health

(physical, emotional, psychological, cultural, spiritual) in the face of dramatic health disparities, nationally and in Washington DC. They serve as a testing ground for new experiences, demonstration of prowess for those who are more practiced--and overall, an outlet for relaxation, community, comfort, acceptance and affirmation. The project asserts that Black same-sex desiring women's parties show us a piece of a larger journey towards a valued, affirmed, self-possessed Black same-sex desire.

In terms of broader theoretical implications, this project understands

Black same-sex desiring women's erotic events demonstrate the constant 46

movement and malleability of the boundaries between public/private. The events show us how Black women's spatial practices in the host venues contribute to their pursuit of sexual citizenship. Rather than strip clubs, the grassroots Black public sphere has a long history as the site of Black women redefinition of themselves as sexual agents. The boundary between public and private space is not neatly contained but rather manipulated deliberately and strategically to create and preserve Black women's sexual culture and spatial practices. Through their events, Black women's same-sex desiring erotic parties help re-imagine Black women's same-sex sexuality and gender possibilities- on their terms. Ultimately, I reassert that investigations of public sexual culture must continue to move beyond questions of empowerment or exploitation or whether such practices "hann" the community image into deeper questions of how, why and what it means to the people who create and participate in public sexual cultural spaces. CHAPTER2

ALL LADIES WELCOME: BLACK SAME-SEX DESIRING WOMEN IN TRADITIONAL STRIP CLUBS

For the Vegas Cabaret and Club Eden strip clubs in Davie, Florida, women aren't just performers on stage, they're paying customers too.

Or, at least, these clubs hope so.

The second page of the May 2006 issue of the lesbian magazine She features a full page ad for two traditional (women dancing for men) strip clubs proclaiming, "All Ladies Welcome." Beneath the large white font against a black, starry background, reclines a white, busty, svelte woman with blonde hair and shimmering pink lip gloss in a white bra, panties and fishnet stockings with lace, lying on a purple satin sheet on a bed, looking directly into the camera. The ad notes, "no male escorts needed in either club" and

"mention ad and receive free admission."

Facing this full page strip club ad is another full page ad for the

Elements club, where, rather than an invitation to be absorbed into a male environment, women are designated their own nights called Ultra Saturdays.

The ad lists the theme evenings at Elements; Ultra A-Go-Go dance contest on

47 48

May 6th, The Dixie Chicks CD Release Party on May 20th and a military­

themed Memorial Day Party called "Bootcamp" for May 27th. One-third of

the full page ad for Elements is a large photo of a white, early-twenties

woman in an army green tank top smiling softly through her wispy, short

blonde hair. The contrast of the ads is striking. On one hand, the strip club ad

beckons women's same-sex desire into an environment which exists to center

on (and cater to) male hetero desire, whereas the "women's night" ad denotes

a same-sex desiring environment created by and for women on the other.

In this chapter, I argue that the "All Ladies Welcome" ad attempts to

expand the constructed atmosphere of the traditional strip club beyond what

Katherine Frank refers to as "the fantasy sold in strip clubs" (Frank 2002:

120) by inviting same-sex desiring women inside as consumers of other

women's erotic performances. However, despite their invitation, traditional

strip clubs do not fully address women's needs and priorities as audience

members, as spectators to the spectacle. Reflected in the ad's insistence that

"all ladies are welcome" to their traditional strip clubs, Brian.McNair asserts

that the Western media-saturated world is currently in the midst of what he

calls "striptease culture," signaling a cultural move to view strippers as "feisty

independent souls rather than exploited victims" (McNair 2002: 90), asserting

greater interest in and access to strip clubs (and strip club-like experiences).

While there is "heightened mainstream interest in what had hitherto been perceived as the sleazy, sad world of strip clubs" (2002: 90), does this ad

signal a new freedom for women 's same-sex desire to enter a democratized 49

sexual public sphere and partake in all that traditional strip clubs have to offer,

redefining places of "sleaze" into egalitarian sites of access for anyone who

wants to view women's sexualized performances for pay? And if so, does this

newly redefined sexual public sphere of "striptease culture" extend to all

women?

It's true that the relationship between strip clubs and (mainly white)

women is experiencing a major shift, permitting "strip-club-like" experiences:

pole dancing classes offered at gyms across the country, public performances

of striptease-like acts at nightclubs, along with mainstream feature films

whose main characters either already are or embark on a journey to become

strippers. These new cultural experiences, termed "striptease culture" (2002)

by Brian McNair, allow more exposure to strip club environments without the

need to visit a strip club, enabling more viewing with fewer stigmas than ever

before. This is not in the name of expansion of access to women and sexual minorities in the name of social justice: such experiences are highly profitable

for those who provide them (and who can and often do charge money).

However democratic striptease culture proclaims itself to be, I draw on Don

Mitchell's work on the distance between the promise of the public sphere and

the realities of public space access. I argue in this chapter that striptease

culture does not extend to allow all women's same-sex desire to flourish openly or affirmatively and it has to do with the separation between the public

sphere (theoretical) and public space (material). 50

Striptease culture may allow greater public knowledge about

traditional strip clubs but, when applied to this project, what happens when

Black same-sex desiring women attempt, not to learn about, but to enter and

experience such spaces? As Black lesbians and would-be traditional strip club

customers, Di Collins (pseudonym; erotic party promoter) and Angel Tavares

(pseudonym, audience member) both share their stories in this chapter and

demonstrate that it takes more than an ad "welcoming women" to invite Black

same-sex desire into a strip club (or "strip club-like," such as a nightclub with

erotic performances) space. The second part of this chapter is an analysis of their three stories together, bringing to light the circumstances which helped

create Black same-sex desiring women's erotic parties. Neither traditional

strip clubs nor "lesbian dance nights" may invoke Black same-sex desire in its

fullest expression- though they may both exclaim that "all ladies [are] welcome."

Striptease Culture

Striptease culture, as described by Brian McNair, is "the media of sexual confession and self-revelation ... the outcome of media activity by people who are, at least when they start out, amateurs and non-celebrities"

(McNair 2002: 88). McNair explains that striptease culture requires three preconditions: "audiences ... participants/performers ... and a taste regime, receptive to the spectacle of ordinary people stripping off, physically or emotionally" (McNair 2002: 89). More than a rise in amateur porn or at-home 51

webcams, striptease culture refers to increased talk about sex; specifically,

expression concerning one's own sexual experiences, desires and beliefs in

the public sphere:

Striptease culture frequently involves ordinary people talking about sex and their own sexualities, revealing intimate details of the feelings and their bodies in the public sphere ... The words and images one encounters in striptease culture ... may contain nakedness, self­ exhibition and self-revelation, of a literal and metaphorical kind, but they will rarely aim for sexual arousal in the audience. They are closer to anthropology than pornography in their focus on the discovery and explanation of sexual phenomena. (McNair 2002: 89)

Striptease culture came into its height in the mid-1990s, citing the increase in

celebrity erotica (Madonna's Sex book), films about stripping (Striptease,

Showgirls, The Full Monty) and the budding genre of reality television in

MTV's The Real World (featuring real people confessing their sexual

proclivities as part of the show) and The Jerry Springer Show (offering the

chance for anyone to be a guest if they were willing to publicly confess

something taboo to an unsuspecting family member or romantic partner in

front of an audience.) Through striptease culture, ordinary people became watchers and the watched.

A crucial aspect of striptease culture that McNair cites is the capacity to "give representation to the previously under-represented- to publicize that which has been not just private, but suppressed, repressed or oppressed into invisibility" (McNair 2002: 98). Most notably, in the late 1990s and early

2000s, "as sexualized looking lost its negative associations, advertisers calculated that selling sex could be extended to the objectification of men as well as women" (2002: 117). Striptease culture signaled that "the sexualized 52 gaze was being transformed from something that men 'do' to women, into one element of a post-feminist sexual culture in which women as well as men could participate" (2002: 118).

Returning to the "All Ladies Welcome" ad, produced in the context of striptease culture, a number of important points must be established. First, the ad invites same-sex desiring women's sexualized gaze and attempts to offer them "sexual citizenship and consumer sovereignty" at the traditional strip clubs-part of what striptease culture's conditions allow, as described by

McNair. The ad specifically acknowledges the same-sex desiring woman as a potential audience member, advertising willing performers and spaces for that audience as well as a "taste regime" in the form of the traditional strip club, offering the usual glamorized, busty, blonde whiteness, dressed in white lingerie. By positioning the traditional strip club as not simply "available" for women's consumption but "welcoming" their attendance (without a "male escort"), the ad signals the clubs' attempts to create a new role for women's participation: as spectator alongside male customers for the expression of their desire for women.

Secondly, unless she is a dancer or identifiable staff member, there is only one other role for women in a traditional strip club, especially those in the audience of a strip club performance- that of prostitute. The ad text's declaration ''No male escorts needed" is a reference to a widespread requirement of many traditional strip clubs: women must be accompanied by an identifiably male person in an effort to prevent prostitution at the club. 53

Women do enter strip clubs as customers; however, as Frank points out, "rules

prohibiting women from entering unless escorted by a male (ostensibly for the

woman's protection)" successfully "precludes some women from becoming

customers, even if they so desire" (Frank 2002: 18).

In fact, some strip club laws imply that the clubs need to be protected

from "loose women," who may threaten their ability to make money (either

through offering sex for money, thereby reducing the income of strippers or

through increased club surveillance due to the illegality of prostitution in the

United States). Strip clubs (legal) are perceived to be at higher risk for

prostitution (illegal) because of the presumed hyper-aroused male cohort and

their "inherent biological vulnerabilities" to a suggestion of sex that they

might pay for it. After all, if men pay to see nudity, the logic goes, they might

also pay for illegal sexual services-and so any single woman in the strip club

who is not marked as a dancer is potentially read as a prostitute. According to

this logic, a woman with a male escort creates a narrative that now has a role

and fits into the club, signifying the "adventurous couple" (acceptable,

profitable for the club) rather than as "prostitute and pimp" (unacceptable,

threatening).

As such, the ad appears to promise that, at these clubs, female

customers would enjoy the same status as male customers and that hetero men

and same-sex desiring women can be united in their desire for women.

Imagined as the same desire, together, hetero males and same-sex desiring women can partake in all that traditional strip clubs have to offer, their desires 54 playing out in the same ways (and to the same end: profit for the club and dancers). By invoking striptease culture's value of"democratic desire," the ad presumes "all ladies" can have equal access to strip clubs, equating women's desire for women with that of hetero men. The ad's underlying presumption is that what hetero men want to do and see in a strip club is also what same-sex desiring women want to do and see--and, presumably, for the same reasons.

Finally, in addition to its prominent welcome and "choice" discourse

("2 locations to choose from!"), the ad insists that women who enter their clubs will not be read as prostitutes. In fact, if they mention the ad from She magazine (again, a lesbian magazine), they can bypass the cover charge.

Mentioning the ad would mark them not as prostitutes but possibly out them as lesbians, in an attempt to introduce a new, visible role for women in the traditional strip club environment. This is a shift away from the reading of a woman who is a threat to their business, who generates profits for herself(the

"bad business-taking prostitute") towards a woman who, like the male customers, is a paying customer, one who desires women and profits the strip club (the "good money-spending lesbian"). Drawing on the promises of striptease culture, these strip clubs seem to want to offer lesbians affirmed visibility in a space with the promise of equal access to an experience largely off-limits to them in the past. 55

Participation in Habermas' Public Sphere

Brian McNair's assertion that striptease culture is the "sexualization of

the public sphere" stems from Jurgen Habermas' theory of the emergence of

the "bourgeois public sphere." Habermas defines this phenomenon as the

historical, gradual development of ''the sphere of private people come together

as a public; they soon claimed the public sphere regulated from.above against

the public authorities themselves, to engage them in a debate over the general

rules governing relations in the basically privatized but publicly relevant

sphere of commodity exchange and social labor (Habermas 1991: 27). What

was important to Habermas was that formerly private people were confronting

depersonalized authority about the ''private sphere of society that' has become

publicly relevant" to them (Habermas 1991: 19). This confrontation would

shift the locus of power from feudalist landowners to state institutions and

socially engaged, private individuals who had become "public."

The exchange of ideas which characterizes Habermas' public sphere

and an example of how this came to b~ lies in the emergence of coffee houses in London:

Around the middle of the seventeenth century, after not only tea-first to be popular-but also chocolate and coffee had become the common beverages of at least the well-to-do strata of the population, the coachman of a Levantine merchant opened the first coffee house ... As in the salons where 'intellectuals' met with the aristocracy, literature had to legitimate itself in these coffee houses ... Thus critical debate ignited by works ofliterature and art was soon extended to include economic and political disputes, without any guarantee that (such was given in the salons) that such discussions would be inconsequential, at least in the immediate context. (Habermas 1991: 32-33) 56

"Transcending the barriers of social hierarchy, the bourgeois met here with the socially prestigious but politically uninfluential nobles as "common" human beings" (Habermas 1991: 34-35). Ultimately, "social equality was possible only as an equality outside the state. The coming together of private people into a public was therefore anticipated in secret, as a public sphere still existing largely behind closed doors" (Habermas 1991: 35). This is not to say that the concept of the public sphere materialized seamlessly via places such as salons and coffee houses, but that through them, the idea of the public sphere developed there and became institutionalized (1991: 36).

One major outcome of the emergence of the public sphere was that

"discussion within such a public presupposed the problematization of areas that until then had not been questioned" (Habermas 1991: 36). Philosophical and literary works, musical performances and theater visits became commodities and experiences one could purchase and, as such, conversations about them were no longer defined only by authorities like the Church or the court. Through the public sphere, works of art and literature lost their "aura of extraordinariness" (Habermas 1991: 36) and as long as one was educated and a property owner, one could gain admittance to the public sphere.

Beyond a Singular, Bourgeois Public Sphere

There are many criticisms of the public sphere theory, namely, that the public sphere is not as equalizing when it comes to gender, class and race.

The public sphere was (and is) male dominated, economically privileged and 57 powerfully white. Habermas himself points out the exclusion of women from such spaces, but says little about what women did do in relationship to the public sphere:

The fact that only men were admitted to this coffee-house society may have had something to do with this [the authority granted to public sphere discussions], whereas the style of a salon, like that of the rococo in general, was essentially shaped by women. Accordingly the women of London society, abandoned every evening, waged a vigorous but vain struggle against the new institution. The coffee house not merely made access to the relevant circles less formal and easier; it embraced the wider strata of the middle class, including craftsmen and shopkeepers. (Habermas 1991: 32-33)

Despite his acknowledgment that women were not admitted to such spaces and opposed them because husbands were away from the home for public sphere participation, Habermas offers no critique of the public sphere's operation in terms of excluding women or how the impact of women's exclusion from such spaces. Although coffee houses brought together men across class lines to discuss matters previously decided for them, the fact remains that they were men and white. Nancy Fraser is clear on this often- cited criticism of public sphere theories:

{T} he problem is not only that Habermas idealizes the liberal public sphere but also that he fails to examine other, nonliberal, non bourgeois, competing public spheres. Or rather, it is precisely because he fails to examine these other public spheres that he ends up idealizing the liberal public sphere ... the view that women were excluded from the public sphere turns out to be ideological; it rests on a class- and gender-biased notion of publicity, one which accepts at ·race value the bourgeois public's claim to be the public. (Fraser 1990: 60-61)

This criticism of the public sphere is not new and can be applied to McNair's striptease culture and claims to the democratization of desire. 58

That women are acknowledged as erased from Habermas' theorizing of the public sphere (and, I argue, they are also largely unexamined in

McNair's theorizing of striptease culture and his claim of a democratized sexual sphere) is understood. Yet, women still occupy actual public space- so how does the public sphere impact lived public space? Before delving into

Black women's experiences attempting to find sexually liberating experiences in traditional strip clubs, it is important to understand the relationship between the idealized public sphere and the ways women occupy actual public space.

Public/Private Sphere vs. Public/Private Space

In terms of sphere and space, Petchesky (1990) finds a clearly gendered relationship between the public sphere and access to public space, particularly concerning the ways in which men and women moved through the world and as an organizing societal principle. She traces the separation of women and men to Athens, Greece, when women were relegated to the rooms of homes furthest from the street, stating that "separation of sexes was spatially emphasized ... men spent most of their day in public areas ... respectable [i.e., upper-class] women remained at home" (Petchesky 1990:

79). The public/private divide wasn't simply a tradition or a random way to organize people. The state had a two-fold interest in maintaining the separation of the sexes through the public/private divide, to control population growth (in essence, who was allowed to have children) and "the control of sexuality, especially that of married women and young girls" (Petchesky 59

1990: 67). In other words, women's bodies and sexualities are controlled through this divide to inhibit women's sexual expression, threatening women with violence and exploitation if they "go too far," limiting women's spatial opportunities for such expression and (because space and the social are mutually shaping) limiting women's sexual expression itself.

Don Mitchell distinguishes between the public sphere and public space in terms of materiality. Mitchell asserts that the public sphere functions as a

''universal, abstract sphere" while public space "constitutes an actual site, a place, a ground within and from which political activity flows" (Mitchell

2003: 134). The public sphere makes promises of freedom and mobility, whereas the public space is tested to deliver- and ultimately, it is "a place within which political movements can stake out the territory that allows them to be seen (and heard)" (Mitchell 2003: 129).

Essentially, what the "All Ladies Welcome" ad fails to do is distinguish between public sphere and public space, collapsing them together as though theoretical freedom in one (public sphere) translated into actual freedom in the other (public space). Glossing over the material ways in which a traditional strip club space is gendered, the magazine ad also posits that traditional strip club environments can be made to be welcoming to "ladies" if they are just invited to join the men (via the ad), implying that "all ladies [are] welcome," regardless of race. Given the dominant Western cultural value placed on the white, blonde, feminine beauty (as prominently featured in the ad), strip clubs are commonly segregated to create shrines to white female 60 beauty (sometimes with a few women of color to provide variety, but only to a limited degree to maintain a focus on the primacy of white flesh). "Black" strip clubs are less common but feature women of color (mainly Black and

Latina) dancers to cater to hetero males (usually Black). The ad fails to recognize that neither their clubs, nor t:p.e ad, represent "all ladies."

Strip Clubs, Space and Racial Segregation

Before Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance parties began, Black women already had an ongoing relationship with traditional strip clubs as performers. When Black women are included as "variety" at white strip clubs, their Blackness may only be rewarded or valued if it is presented in racialized ways, to maintain the centrality of the white strippers. Madeleine

Lawson, in a discussion among sex workers of color, explains how male customers and fellow dancers in a white traditional strip club impacted her as a Black dancer. "I find my Blackness beautiful, but ironically, I don't enjoy it when clients eroticize it. I get all these guys who just want me to put my hands on my hips, crack gum and speak with a ghetto dialect" (Lawson, et al

1997: 207). In general, all dancers must perform gender (and cater to their male customers in general) as part of their job. However, as Madeleine

Lawson describes, Black dancers may be asked to cater to male customers in specific ways around performances of race which reinscribe white male hetero power. 61

It's not just the customers who demand such performances ofrace. In a white traditional_ strip club, white dancers benefit from the privileging of white female bodies and nudity. Lawson goes on to explain the unwillingness of her fellow white dancers to neither acknowledge nor disrupt the dynamics which benefited them at her expense:

I'm tired of being around all these naive white women who don't know the meaning of fighting the system. They just sit there all wide­ eyed, feeling philanthropic. They're like, 'Oh, do you want to come in on my session? I can give you some.' Like something out of Uncle Tom's Cabin. And I feel like, 'No, I want my own session. I don't want your fucking crumbs. I want my own piece of cake, thank you.' Being arolllld all those white women who just don't get it, the strength that I had as a Black woman slowly began to diminish. Contrary to what many of my white colleagues believe, for the most part, they are getting paid, being worshipped, and don't want to get it. (Lawson, et al 1997: 207)

As described in the next section, it is not just Black female dancers who experience marginalization at white strip clubs, but Black female customers as well.

Di Collins and the Nexus Gold Club

When the promise of being "welcomed" into the public sphere as a fully recognized citizen becomes·an invitation to enter and participate equally in public space (such as "All Ladies Welcome" implies), the disconnect between the two can become quickly apparent. A promoter of' girlz parties' at a strip club in Maryland, just northeast of Washington D.C., Di describes her experience at the Nexus Gold Club, a traditional white strip club environment located in Washington D.C. Although she had been given a pass 62 to enter the traditional strip club (given to her by a dancer), the welcome ended there:

Basically, myself and a partner of mine went out one night to go to the strip clubs and we decided to go to Nexus. I had a get in free pass to get in one of the dancers had given me. We got there but we couldn't really get in, we couldn't get through the front door. So this guy came up and at the time I had a limousine company so I was all out there talking limousine talk with them and a guy came up and allowed, got me and my partner in the club, in the first stage, which was to the booth to pay. Once we got to the booth to pay, got us in, we didn't have to pay and everything. They checked our ID and then he left! (Di Collins, interview with author, January 29, 2005)

Di's narrative of her visit to Nexus with her partner speaks to her dual status as insider and outsider. She presents herself as insider by displaying the pass given to her by a fellow dancer. Having a pass marks her as having a connection to one of the performers, which is the goal of many gentlemen's clubs- "to experience the fantasy of 'being wanted,' 'being desired,' 'being liked,' or simply 'being noticed"' (Liepe-Levinson 2002: 185) by the performers. The pass from a dancer indicated she had special status outside of the club which warranted her entry. For Di, she felt that the staff was supposed to read her free pass as a mark of being a part of the club already, despite her being Black, female and her implied desire to watch women perform erotically, marking her as Black, female and same-sex desiring.

However, the Nexus Gold Club exists to cater to white, heteronotmative males. As such, rather than be "welcomed," her status was that of outsider

(unwelcome).

As a Black female with a female partner, Di encountered significant barriers to entering the club smoothly. The bouncers' abandonment, 63 providing no guidance or direction for her next step is not simply a matter of bad customer service. The lack of direction can be exceptionally disorienting for customers when entering a strip club environment. Strip clubs exist because of the unique experiences a customer can have there. To define what those experiences are and their terms, strip clubs have both explicit and implied rules. Not knowing these rules can lead to confusion and, at times, conflict with the dancers or the club, causing a negative experience, including being thrown out of the club. Hence, it is in the interest of the strip club to make these rules known, and for customers to know them so that customers can obey them. However, making these rules vague or impossible to follow is also an effective way to block an "undesirable" customer's participation.

Rule enforcement is a strategy used by clubs and by dancers alike. At my club (Filly's), we had three rules, which were announced periodically by the DJ, especially between dancers' set while the next performer was making her way to the stage. Our house rules were: "no touching the dancers," "no soliciting the dancers" and "no foul language." This doesn't mean that customers didn't occasionally test the rules with us and infractions didn't occur; it just meant that, if we needed to enforce them, we could. Dancers could initiate and control certain forms of touching (such as a kiss on the cheek after a tip) but the rule served to prevent customers from trying to do it themselves. If a customer got "touchy" with me, he knew that there was a house rule and I could get him in trouble if he pushed it. It also let the customers know that, despite a sense of unlimited possibilities, there were 64 rules in the club. When rules needed to be enforced, it sent a message to the other customers: behave yourself or we'll give you negative attention (instead of the positive attention you're seeking).

House rules may be announced and posted, but there are unwritten conventional rules for behavior in strip clubs. Being oblivious to "strip club decorum" won't get customers kicked out but it can mark them as inexperienced at best or limit their experience of the space at worst (up to and including being ejected from the space). Liepe-Levinson likens strip club interactions and rules to that of playing a game: "one is usually dependent upon the other players and ... there is always the possibility that one may fumble or otherwise make a mistake" (2002: 155). Customers are aware that their performance is also on display in the club setting, as they watch, they are also watched, not just by club security but by fellow customers who will observe their skill and demonstrated familiarity with club rituals. As customers react to performances, as they interact with fellow customers, interact with dancers and tip them, they pass through these stages- from entrance door to dancer tipping rituals- their visibility increases and decreases, with the highest visibility and vulnerability level being approaching the stage · to tip a performing dancer.

Just as dancers may make it easier or harder for customers to accomplish the tip ritual smoothly (thereby making the customer appear suave--or like a fool-to the other patrons), so too can the bounce staff go to great pains to ease (or interfere with, in the case of Di) the entrance of 65 customers to the club. What heightens the pleasure of completing the various rituals of the strip club experience properly, garnering approval from dancer and patrons, is the tension within the possibility of looking "like a fool" or inexperienced in some way, a dynamic Liepe-Levinson calls "mimetic jeopardy" (2002: 154). Mimetic jeopardy can be harnessed as a strategy employed by dancers and club staff to encourage "good customers" and discourage "bad customers," by preventing them from completing rituals successfully. This includes hampering the customer's smooth transition into the club setting.

Di continues to try to become a successful customer of the Nexus

Club:

Well, we moved further in and neither one of us had been there before so for about ten minutes we just stood there. And no one really paid attention to us, no one . . . came over to us or anything so finally we went and sat down, we went and found a table. Because, like I say, we had never been there before. So we went and found a table and again, we were just sitting there. Like, ten minutes went by. It was a show going on and, you know, it was crowded, people all around us at the tables and the dancers were dancing and the waitresses were walking around but nobody stopped at our table! (Di Collins, interview with author, January 29, 2005)

As she enters the environment without guidance or direction from club staff, she waits in an attempt to ascertain the "rules" of the club and how she should proceed. Undeterred by the lack of assurance of the next step, she persists by waiting patiently for the wait staff to help guide her to her place in the space. When she is neither scolded for blocking the entrance nor guided in the proper procedure but is rendered invisible, she makes a decision to seize a table. At least if this is a break in the rules (ie; Di is supposed to wait to be 66

seated), she could be notified that she is not following procedure.

Acknowledging that she is supposed to know the rules, but also that she is

making an effort to know them and that the club is supposed to indicate the

rules to her, her move to a table is both a provocation to the strip club as well

as her continued effort to be a customer. She mentions how the space looks

inside: "a show goin' on," "crowded," "dancers were dancing"-the space

seems to be working for all others in the space, but not for her.

Di and her partner attempt to fit into the space again, by asking to be

served drinks:

So I asked one of the guys could we get someone to come and wait on us and he said, "Sure, give me a minute" and time went by and then my partner, she asked somebody and then time went by and finally ... one of the waitresses came over... and waited on us and got us a drink. At that time we found out that they really don't ... wait or deal with women that come in there without a male escort. Okay, ifyou don't have a male escort, they really don't even recognize you. (Di Collins, interview with author, January 29, 2005)

Realizing that she doesn't know the rules and rituals of the club and

finding that the club is not assisting them in determining those rules and

rituals, she decides to freely break them. Rather than wait to be seated or

directed to choose her own table, she makes a decision to find a table,

regardless of whatever the rule might be. Her invisibility, being a Black

woman with a female partner, is pronounced when she is ignored at the door

and again by the wait staff, even when she repeatedly requests service.

Di's explains why this happens when she learns one of the rules of the

club: women must have male escorts in order to be "recognized," to use Di's word. She is told this when she is finally served a drink. There is no posted 67 or spoken rule to indicate the need for a male escort. The Nexus Club simply did not anticipate that women would enter the club singly or with other women and did not post or otherwise indicate the rule for Di. Without a male escort, Di and her partner were, in essence, allowed to blunder and make mistakes and, without notification of the rules of the "strip club game," it becomes increasingly difficult (and unpleasant) to play.

Despite finally receiving their drinks in the strip club, her reflection on how she felt in the space is quite revealing when one considers that strip clubs are designed to offer [male] customers relaxation through feeling accepted and

(to reference the ad targeting lesbian customers) feeling "welcome." Male patrons of strip clubs, as Frank's ethnography notes, speak about their experience of the club as a place to relax, a place to feel "at home." Once Di has a table and a drink, she expects to be a part of the environment and an active player in the "strip club game" of customer-stripper interactions; yet, she is not and this is ultimately what ends her willingness to play:

So ... we bought the, we got the drinks, she served us the drink and we sat there for a minute but we really felt ignored, we really didn't feel like we were there, a part of the ... club or we were a patron of the club so we just basically got up and left. (Di Collins, interview with author, January 29, 2005)

Being a part ofthe environment is a central reason customers

(regardless of gender) seek out strip clubs. Being a part ofthe action is how customers get to be "swept away" in it-- and it is central to why customers go.

Dedicated solely to pleasures and fantasies of patrons, strip clubs employ a number of strategies to contribute to the experience of being "swept away" in 68 the excess of the space: " ... a barrage of mirrors. high-tech lighting~ shiny surfaces, and a seemingly endless, orgiastic selection of goods" (Liepe­

Levinson 2002: 57). For Karl Toepfer, "the orgy always signifies a mood of danger, an extravagant risk. .. the manifestations of 'too much' or 'more than enough' pleasure" (Toepfer 1991: 10). Customers seek out the strip club experience to be "swept away" by the excessive environment. When Di's invisibility prevents her participation in the club, she cannot fulfill her desire this way and leaves the club.

According to Frank (2002), customers' feelings of acceptance and participation in predictable, safe, scripted interactions are a large part of why traditional strip clubs continue to be successful-yet Di and her partner did not experience either of these elements at Nexus. Frank notes that, eventually, male customers admitted that "safe opportunities for close interactions with women without the risk of rejection" and an "ego boost" (Frank 2002: 110) were part of the transaction they sought with dancers at strip clubs. She notes that dancers are "young, available, interested, and accepting" of men in strip clubs, regardless of the male customer's own attractiveness, potency, age, ability or job- or any other power marker outside the club that could hinder his social clout. In contrast, Di felt none of this welcome as she was rejected and ignored by staff, without the opportunity to interact with Nexus dancers at all.

As a Black female customer, Di felt the racism and homophobia and attributes her poor treatment at Nexus to being a woman and the club's assumption that she was "nobody": 69

And, it really, it really upset me because they did not know who I was. You know, in so much as I could have shut the club down for the night, I could have rented the club out for a whole night, told them don't let anybody else in. You know! I mean I really had the capabilities of doin' this but he didn't know who I was. It just was the fact that I was a woman. (Di Collins, interview with author, January 29,2005)

Whereas men cite strip clubs as places where their social position melts away in favor of unconditional acceptance from the dancers, Di's social position as a Black same-sex desiring woman became the vehicle for her exclusion.

Angel Visits Club 55

Angel Tavares, a 55-year-old African-American lesbian, explains her difficulty with a Black male customer at Club 55, a traditional Black strip club, located proximal to the gay club zone in Southeast Washington D.C. and known to host gay-themed .events on occasion. While both traditional strip clubs are located in DC, unlike Nexus Gold, Club 55 features dancers of color nearly exclusively and caters to Black male clientele. Angel recounts her sole visit to a traditional strip club, seeking Black dancers:

I just love beautiful sisters and to see them dance is just a plus. Yes, actually, I've only [gone to a traditional strip club] one time and I was in DC. I went to Club 55. I went there to see ... at that time my favorite dancer, Entice, was there. My girlfriend went with me - she's my friend but not my girlfriend. She took me and we kind of. .. sat along the wall. When you walk in the door, we sat to the left about midway to the stage. And I was actually ... not accosted, but a guy came over and sat next to me and, you know, was actually bothering me. He was talking to me and asking me questions and finally the bouncer came and threw him out. I don't like being in mixed company when I go see a dancer. (Angel Tavares, interview with author, January 28, 2005) 70

In contrast to Di's experience, Angel was able to get a table and even

had cooperation from the staff when she experienced a problem with a Black

male customer. The construction of strip clubs as "custodians" of women's

bodies and sexuality worked in Angel's favor in this case.

Rather than male harassment, Angel's main concern was the

possibility that the dancers would be homophobic; yet, this issue vanished

when she was greeted with enthusiasm:

As a matter of fact, those ladies, Entice and Israel, about four and five dancers came out into the audience and conversed a little bit with the patrons and the sisters were very, very nice. I was surprised because I kind of thought, since it was my first time at a gentleman's club, I figured they were straight and wonder why I was there but they were really cool. Sat down and talked to me and my friends. And were very friendly. Did not get any negative conversation or action. In fact, it seemed to me they spent more time with us. As far as I could see, we were the only two women in the club. She stayed with me for awhile. I was really pleased. (Angel Tavares, interview with author, January 28, 2005)

Although Club 55 was still a male-dominated, heteronormative space, it was a

Black dominated space which valued and (visibly) prioritized Blackness.

Once the harasser was escorted out and the dancers approached her in a friendly manner, Angel's main fear (negative reaction from the dancers) dissipated. She was able to enjoy some of what a traditional strip club environment can offer. Striptease culture didn't provide that to Angel via a strip club; it was a space which catered to Black people that did.

Di and Angel's experiences with the public sphere/public space divide in traditional strip clubs exposed the fact that, while the larger public sphere may declare Black women equal under the law and as free as any other 71 citizen, public space is raced, gendered, classed and (often- but, especially in this case) heterosexed. Collapsing sphere and space together would effectively erase the experiences of these two Black same-sex desiring women who attempted to enter traditional strip clubs and enjoy an evening of entertainment. A theoretical public sphere perspective would insist on the ability of Black same-sex desiring women to represent themselves as autonomous subjects, capable of expressing resistance and desire. A solely geographic, public space perspective alone would claim Black same-sex desiring women have no interest in strip clubs because either their own strip club spaces are not readily visible (the ways that traditional strip clubs are) or they are not commonly found in the traditional strip clubs that are readily visible. To locate and understand Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance events, one must have a perspective that understands the realities of the separations between sphere and space. To collapse them together obscures Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performances event spaces from our view and understanding, further marginalizing them at best and erasing them entirely at worst.

This distinction between public sphere and public space provides an analogous glimpse into why notions of "queer" as a political strategy or identity is inadequate to account for the experiences these two Black same-sex desiring women had- and why they sought and created spaces of their own.

To use McNair's example of striptease culture, just because there is greater media coverage, film portrayals and art exhibits with the sex industry as its 72 topic, more exposure does not mean increased access for someone wanting to participate in an erotic encounter in a physical space. Similarly, increased coverage of same-sex marriage debates would make it seem as though lesbian, gay, bisexual, trans gender and queer peoples are all represented through this single issue and therefore, we all have equal access to the public sphere.

Applying a "queer" politics to traditional strip club space may conclude that, due to the marginality of strip clubs and their sexual "outlaw" status as

"outside heteronormativity" in mainstream culture, any other sexual "outlaw" is similarly marginalized by heteronormativity and therefore, welcome to enter and participate. As we've seen, traditional strip clubs are quite invested in heterononnativity and "all ladies" are not "welcome."

Material space and a democratized striptease culture (like the idealized bourgeois public sphere) aren't so democratic after all. Certainly, the historical limitation on women's participation in (and defining themselves within) the public sphere therefore limits women's access to spaces like traditional strip clubs. Histories of women's same-sex desiring and lesbian space emerge to provide additional insight to why the "secret party" approach is far more successful, revealing a long-standing tradition of appropriated and

"borrowed" spaces to suit their unique needs. Hence, the strip clubs' welcoming ad, offering recognition and acknowledgement and to cater to desires for participation through the promise of a liberating, democratic

"striptease culture," is neither sufficient welcome for "all" women into the space nor does it recognize multiple public spheres which emerged to cater to 73 women's desire for participation. particularly for Black same-sex desiring women.

The notion of a singular public sphere where women, people of color and sexual minorities can be absorbed into the ongoing, anything-goes party of striptease culture is to interpret media coverage and portrayal of strippers as a sign of a new, stigma-free existence and to grossly miscalculate what Black same-sex desiring women want as well as the public sphere that Black people

(particular Black women) have created for themselves. This is also at the core of what makes the notion of"queer" politics an inadequate and dangerous approach to understanding what is happening- both the experiences at the traditional strip clubs described here and the experiences at the events Black same-sex desiring women create for themselves.

Rather than claims to a welcome into a space that neither adequately caters to them nor acknowledges their unique sexual subjectivity, the cultivation ofa Black same-sex desiring women's public sphere is designed to give voice and visibility to performances of their sexual desire in public space.

These self-fashioned spaces of socializing and resistance are the sites of confrontation with historical constructions of Black women's sexualities, using powerful assertions of their own sexual autonomy and expression to redefine the meanings around their spaces and their bodies. CHAPTER3

PUBLIC/PRIV ATE/PLEASUREABLE: CREATING BLACK WOMEN'S LIFEWORLDS OUTSIDE WORK AND HOME

Traditional strip clubs still generally create a masculinized space

(Frank 2003) which does not cater to Black women seeking the level of safety and protection (from sexism, racism and homophobia) needed to enjoy such a space.

In Chapter Two, Di Collins explained her frustrations at the traditional

(and white-dominated) strip club, Nexus Gold Club, which led her to start her own traveling strip club production for Black women in the DC area. Angel

Tavares told the story of her visit to Club 55 in DC, a Black traditional strip club-a visit which started out with tension and discomfort with a Black male harasser but, after his removal by the club, soon smoothed into a satisfying interaction with the Black dancers she met. Once Angel discovered Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance parties, she did not return to a traditional strip club, Black or otherwise.

There are a variety of historical factors which lead to a preference for a

Black-centric, female-centric space when creating such events, dating back to

74 75

slavery. In this chapter, I argue that Black same-sex desiring women's erotic

performance parties are a modem manifestation of Black women's secret

party traditions and designed for a similar reason: to protect the partiers

inside from the threat which exists outside. While that which threatens the

space has changed over the years, the issues at stake remain largely the same.

This chapter traces the beginnings of Black same-sex desiring women's erotic

performance parties as well as bondwomen's gatherings, house parties, rent

parties and ''blind pigs," all designed to allow many working class Black

people to socialize, dance and drink (often with sexual license) away from

whites, away from police surveillance and away from those who might judge,

including middle class Blacks. By connecting Black same-sex desiring

women's erotic performance parties to these histories, the parties' emphasis

on sexual freedom, secrecy and strategizing around the public/private

boundary to protect the space reveals both the importance of what transpires at the parties as well as the (physical, social, spatial) dynamics which threaten

them.

Creating a space of leisure apart from work spaces and home spaces

was an act ofresistance for Black slave women historically- as it is and has been for same-sex desiring communities (gay male public sex venues/bathhouses being the most documented example among these). Black women's public sexual culture in Washington D.C. takes the form of appropriated space, similar to Fiona Buckland's notion of creating idealized

"queer lifeworlds" among (and, at times, within) hetero-dominated spaces. 76

"Rather than 'deliberating about their common affairs,' in dance clubs ... participants performed, not discursive, but embodied action" and

"embodiment of the public sphere or lifeworld contributed to self-fashioning" through dance. (Buckland 2002: 3; italics in original). Rather than speech per se, like much of public sexual culture, some Black women's leisure and political resistance grew from secret parties where the body served as the site ofredefinition. Bodies which misbehave, that harness their energies and strength for dance rather than their master's fields (or their boss's to-do list), bodies that move to their own beat and express sexuality openly. Through these gatherings, working class Black women confront the limitations of the spaces and cultural expectations around them and imagine a new space, a new world where their bodies are valuable, not for what they can produce for others (families, bosses, etc.) but for what they create for themselves together.

Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick reminds us that "people are different from each other" (1993: 247), that sex plays a larger or lesser role for some.than others in terms of their lives and identities, some use it as a way to connect with others and so on (1993: 249-250). As such, Don Mitchell reminds us that sexuality is "socially organized" (2000: 177) and "difference itself is scary to a lot of people ... unsurprisingly, sex and sexuality have become one of the keenest fronts in the culture wars" (2000: 177), especially pertaining to asserting claims to space in which to socialize and be sexually expressive.

The discussion of secret spaces for Black hetero and same-sex socializing, 77

respectively, are thus related and intertwined. They developed together under

conditions of slavery, segregation and class divides in Washington D.C.

Secret Parties as Resistance

In addition to defining the Black female body as a working body,

slavery provided the context for cultural beliefs about Black women's

sexuality in the United States. Sexual encounters among slaves were

beneficial for slave masters seeking more slaves, who encouraged promiscuity

among them. The resulting children were, by definition, their property and

economics trumped any concern for "sexual morality." Slave women were

also subjected to the sexual whims of the slave master. Any white male on the

plantation could help himself sexually at any time to the slave woman of his

choice. While some may have submitted voluntarily, slave women had no

recourse but to submit to a white male sexual aggressor. If she resisted, she

was guaranteed a violent death. There were no legal protections for the rape

of slave women, who were thought to be ''unrapable," due to perceived

hypersexuality that was thought be natural and intrinsic to their bodies (a

hypersexuality which white men could not, therefore, resist). If a Black man

attempted to protect Black women from the assault of white men, he could be killed for it. Under slavery, Black people could not be a witness against

whites in the court oflaw. Indeed, the laws allowed whites nearly total access

to Blacks. The North Carolina Convention of 1835 allowed for any white

man to go to the home of a free Black man, "mistreat and abuse him, and 78

commit any outrage upon his family. If a white person did not witness the act, no legal remedies were available" (Staples 2006: 18).

"Perceptions of the proper uses of the black body, especially the female black body, were central, materially and symbolically, to the formation of slaveholding mastery (Camp 2004: 63). Although Black men and women were both inspected, bought and sold as slaves, the lingering meanings around

Black women's bodies stem from how their bodies were viewed as property and their bodies as curiosities. Patricia Hill Collins describes events where

Black women's bodies were featured for public view, comment and as entertainment, termed "sexual spectacles." Black female slaves were scrutinized and displayed ''to a greater degree than did men, because Western ideas about women and femininity itself have long been more tightly wedded to ideas about women's physical beauty and sexual attractiveness" (Collins

2004: 30). This history persists today as "men are far more likely to stare at and comment upon women's breasts, buttocks, legs, face and other body parts than are women to subject men's bodies to this type of scrutiny" (Collins

2004: 30). Further connected to notions of an animalistic Black female body,

Black women's bodies were constructed as "naturally fit" for agricultural labor because slave traders saw African women working in the fields when they enslaved them as well as their documentation of their supposed sexual deviance (living in "common" with men, baring much of their bodies, particularly their breasts, with "no shame"). This sexual deviance also helped to elevate white femininity and justify Black women's bodies as designed for 79

work, yet needing supervision and paternalistic control. "Unencumbered by the delicacy that prevented the ideal Englishwoman from arduous labor,

African women, then were fit- naturally fit- for demanding agricultural and reproductive labor. .. [and] representations of African women's rugged reproductive capacity ... helped to justify the slave trade by naturalizing it"

(Camp 2004: 63; italics in original).

With time, such investigations of and mythology around Black bodies eventually became "scientific inquiry," in an attempt to rationalize and conclusively measure the degree to which Black bodies required white control. Marianna Torgovnik writes of the savage/civilized binary that informs much of the early inquiry: "primitive, savage, pre-Colombian, tribal. .. exotic ... all take West as norm and define the rest as inferior, different, deviant, subordinate and subordinateable" (Torgovnik 1990: 21), hierarchizing white Europeans over all other peoples. This translates Black sexuality as "rampant. .. [associated] with decadence and corruption, with disease and death" (Torgovnik 1990: 104).

Part of the "science" of racial difference focused especially around size and shape of genitalia and buttocks. Sander Gilman argues that constructions of the savage/civilized binary inform societal "fantasies" about

Black sexuality, revealing a whit~ European fascination with Black genitalia, bordering on obsession (Gilman 1985: 109). Mythologies of Black male penis size, particularly length, led to conclusions of an innate, uncontrollable and voracious sexual drive. Reasoning that the Black man was naturally prone to 80

promiscuity and his supposed sexual prowess, coupled with his supposed large appetite, made him a threat to white women's constructed sexuality as pure, passionless and therefore in need of protection from outside "pollution."

For Black women, mythologies of "enlarged" labia and clitorises contributed to a similar conclusion about their sexuality: that Black women are animalistic in their sexual urges (which were believed to be constant). This also served as evidence of hyper-fertility and scientists of t..he time sometimes referred to a

Black mother's children as "litters." The "enlarged" genitalia, the scientists concluded, indicated an "enlarged" sexual drive, justifying rape of Black women who were thought to be in a constant state of arousal and even need, describing them like animals in heat.

Black women were presumed to be sexually promiscuous, not simply out of a "lack of moral direction," but because of immorality thought to be biologically inherent to Black people. The scientists who conducted such

"studies" were white and their conclusions were based in terms of their own notions of whiteness and its intrinsic power. Failing to realize (or simply ignoring) that variations in stature, hair texture, skull size, genitalia design and size occur within racial groups as well as across, scientists' conclusions mirrored a core presumption in their work: that whites were superior to

Blacks. Their work sought to support the notion that white domination came, not through colonization, slavery practices and social inequalities, but as a result of an inherent biological fitness of white bodies which therefore indicated the moral (and more human) characteristics of the racial group. 81

Slave Parties and Resistance

In the midst of the toil and abuse, many captive laborers did engage in

leisure activities, including parties. Some slave owners did provide leisure

activities for their slaves through "plantation parties" that "carefully doled out joy on Saturday nights and holidays," but such parties "were intended to seem benevolent and to inspire respect, gratitude, deference, and importantly,

obedience" (Camp 2004: 65). At times, slave owners made "it a rule to be present [themselves] occasionally" because they believed that ''negroes

[would] be better disposed this way than any other" (Hazzard-Gordon 1990:

18). Containing their bodily pleasure, the surveillance of white masters both

legitimated the party activities and restricted them, allowing "periodic,

approved expression" (Camp 2004: 65). Parties for captive laborers

(organized and supervised by white masters) were provided in an attempt to

dissuade Blacks from creating their own secret social spaces. In addition to the familiar term "slaves," I acknowledge that a range oflanguage has been used to refer to slaves in a variety of contexts, including "captive laborers,"

(Eldredge and Morton 1994) and "debt bondage" (or "bond labor"). In an

effort to reduce confusion, "slaves" and Camp's term, ''bondpeople," will be used interchangeably for this project.

History reveals that Black women did plan and materialize their own secret parties where dancing, music, drinking and cavorting allowed them to experience their bodies as pleasureable- away from the gaze of their white masters. Understanding her body as "a thing to be claimed and enjoyed, a site 82

of pleasure and resistance" (Camp 2004: 68) was the central aim of secret parties. Secret parties during slavery were significant in two ways, for at the parties, the bondwoman's body became:

a source of pleasure, pride and self-expression. The enormous amount of energy, time and care that some bondwomen put into such luxuries as making and wearing fancy dress and attending illicit parties indicates how important these activities were to them. Pleasure was its own reward for those experiencing it ... [The bondwoman's body was] also a political entity: it was an important symbolic and material resource in the plantation South and a fiercely contested terrain between owner and owned. Just as exploitation, containment, and punishment of the body were politically loaded acts, so, too, was slaves' enjoyment of their bodies. (Camp 2004: 68)

Since Black bondwomen's bodies were defined as work-producing, child-producing and profit-producing for others during slavery, the creation of such spaces was highly significant and important to them-and protecting the spaces from interference was a critical part of the secret party's continued existence. Because white "mastery demanded respect for spatial and temporal boundaries" (Camp 2004: 92), there were tremendous consequences ifthe parties, those going to or coming from parties were discovered by whites.

Great efforts were made to protect the parties: for instance, communication about the parties was carefully guarded and a lookout was always assigned, ready to signal approaching police or whites. "Late in the night the fiddler suddenly stopped playing and adopted 'a listening attitude.'

Everyone became quiet, 'listening for the cause of alarm'" (Camp 2004: 71).

Bondpeople knew that white patrolmen could arrest and use violence again partiers, if discovered. However, if white patrolmen discovered a secret 83

bondpeople party, the party was such an affront to white authority, patrolmen were at times reluctant to confront the group ofrevelers. Having "abandoned

'their place' in the plantation spatial and temporal order," parties represented a group ofbondpeople who "already had proven their lack of deference to slaveholders" authority and their willingness to break rules" (Camp 2004:

71). Partiers also inverted plantation surveillance by monitoring the movements of patrolmen and slaveowners. Lookouts would stretch ropes and vines across the ground to trip patrolmen and their horses; the sight of a tripping horse carrying a confused patrolman became a spectator sport at secret bondpeople parties (Camp 2004: 72).

Focusing their labors on creating social pleasures in their lives diverted their energies away from the time and space allotted for Black women to produce profits for their white slavemasters and their secret parties flew in the face of assumptions about their bodies as solely reproductive, working bodies to be exploited. Thus, these secret parties were deeply subversive and, as such, highly dangerous to attend, given how Black peoples' bodies were defined, what Black bodies were supposed to do, what Black bodies were for, according to white slaveowners and the economic system which defined owned and owner. "While slaveholders' drive for production required rested slave bodies, bondpeople periodically reserved their energies for the night and exhausted themselves at play ... enslaved women and men struggled against planters' inclination to confine them, in order to create the space and time to celebrate and enjoy their bodies" (Camp 2004: 92). Black enjoyment of one's 84

own body was to take energy away from work-- a serious transgression during slavery conditions.

Dissemblance and the Pursuit of Sexual Freedom

However, even after slavery ended in 1865 in the United States, meanings around Black women's bodies changed but persisted into emancipation, influencing how Black women organized themselves socially to resist imposed meanings about their bodies, especially in terms of their sexuality. Although Black women could no longer be confined as bondpeople on plantations, Black women "stood excluded from white women's organizations and they were at odds with black men who, they felt, were not doing their duty to black women or to the race" and "caught in a widening conflict between feminism and black nationalism" (White 1999: 17). Black women created associations in defense of themselves and their bodies as a way to resist dominant constructions of who they were and define themselves for themselves.

However, Black women have never been a monolithic group and, after slavery, "race and gender united them as often as class, religion, sexuality and ideology pitted them against each other" (White 1999: 16). With "few defenders as steadfast as themselves" (White 1999: 16) throughout history,

Black women mainly adhered to race and gender as unifiers when organizing but, for the premiere Black women's organization formed in 1896, the 85

National Association of Colored Women (NACW), ''the defense of black womanhood united them as did no other single cause" (White 1999: 52).

The NACW charged middle-class black women with the task of going

"among the lowly, illiterate and even the vicious, to whom they are bound by ties of race and sex ... to reclaim them" (Harley 1988: 311). Mary Church

Terrell, the leader of the NACW, is quoted as saying of Black social class in

Washington D.C. that there were "subdivisions ad infinitum" but still "one general rule of admission into all, to which there has never been an exception .. .' It would be as difficult for a bore or a moral leper to obtain social recognition among the educated, refined, colored at Washington, as it would be for a camel with a hump to pass literally through a cambric needle's eye"

(Terrell 1904: 152). For Terrell and the NACW, the authentic Black woman was the one who was no longer under white control but now, in complete, utter control ofherself. This meant being "educated" and "refined" (as opposed to "uneducated" and ''unrefined").

Class divisions among Black women after slavery led to struggle over how Black women's sexuality would be defined and whose Black womanhood would become the one to visibly talk back to dominant notions of

"looseness" and "animality" which had characterized Black female bodies.

Terrell expressed resentment that all Black women were being judged based on the "consequences ofthe acts of their most depraved sisters" (Harley 1988:

311). Sallie Stewart (NACW president from 1928 to 1930) reminded Black women of the time when "the black woman was denied even the reputation of 86

being chaste and virtuous" (Hine 1981: 62) and offered the "climb" to chaste

womanhood as the ultimate challenge to Black women in their leadership of

future generations. The NACW was only one among many Black women's

clubs which sought to defend against accusations of promiscuity, immorality

and uncontrollable lustiness. For the clubwomen's movement and the leaders

who guided it, the ideal of Black womanhood was a private sexuality that was

always on public display (by virtue of her being Black) and thus, had to

disprove the dominant notion of loose sexuality. This strategy to counter the

historical archetype of Black female hyper-sexuality among Black women,

called "dissemblance" by Darlene Clark Hine, is a way to protect the inner

selves of Black women, a way to reduce sexual attention as a protection from

the persistent threat of rape, stemming from the racialized belief that Black

women possessed an untamed sexuality.

"Yet," as Angela Davis writes, "in the process of defending Black

women's moral integrity and sexual purity, sexual agency was almost entirely

denied. We should remember that in the aftermath of slavery, sexuality was

one of the very few realms in which masses of African-American women

could exercise some kind of autonomy: they could, at least, choose their

sexual partners- and thus, they could distinguish their post-slavery status from their historical enslavement" (Davis in Bobo, Hudley, Michel 2004: 93).

However, downplaying expressions of sexual desire and agency, through a sense of "racial obligation rei'nforced by the demands of the Black community 87

and its institutions ... gave [Black women] respect and recognition" (Hine

1989: 919).

The Great Migration and Secret Space

Between 1916 and 1930, Blacks migrated from the South to urban

areas of the country, including Chicago, New York, Philadelphia, Detroit and

Washington DC (Hazzard-Gordon 1990: 94). Black populations rose by 40%

in many Northern cities, which where jobs, voting rights (for men, at first) and

access to quality education provided a route to a better life, away from

Southern racism. A separate Black lesbian culture1 more readily develops in

urban areas for of all the reasons which make cities conducive to same-sex

socializing but also because of class and race segregation in residential areas.

Patricia Hill Collins writes,

Black neighborhoods within large cities became areas of racial and sexual boundary-crossing that supported more visible lesbian and gay activities ... One community study of the lesbian community in Buffalo, New York, found racial and social class differences among lesbians. Because Black lesbians were confined to racially segregated neighborhoods, lesbians had more house parties and social gatherings within their neighborhoods. (Collins 2004: 110-111)

Black populations brought their secret party traditions and entrepreneurial

strategies with them, all of which facilitated the growth of Black same-sex

1 "Black lesbian culture" historically also included Black women who partnered with women, even if they did not identify as "lesbians." Much historical research uses the term "lesbian" categorically for Black same-sex desiring women. I acknowledge the expansion and shifting nature of personal identity terminology over time but also assert that Black women's same-sex desiring culture has suffered erasure and silence from historical writings, which shall not be repeated in this project over the use of the word "lesbian." 88

desiring social spaces as well' as the continued redefining of the Black sexual

body on their own terms.

As Blacks migrated into cities, landlords took the migration as an

opportunity to cash in on high rent charges for substandard housing- and the

rent party became a mainstay of Black social life. Flats that might have rented

for $20 a month could suddenly rise to $60 as housing need outstripped housing availability. "The rent party originated the first time a Black person had to pay his rent and couldn't" (1990: 97) and functioned as a way to

provide entertainment as well as tum a profit-with the blessing of the

community. Rooted in jook joint and church social traditions, the rent party

flourished particularly in the South where high rents, low wages and

overcrowded living conditions necessitated fundraising for rent payments. An

established cooperative network of friends, neighbors and family members helped meet the added demand for food, liquor, dancing, music and gambling

and one's own home was typically the site for the party-a sort of temporary jook. Rent party helpers did so with the assumption that the favor would be returned when hard times inevitably came for them later.

Rent parties (also known as "house parties") emerged as a wider Black

community effort but, for Black same-sex desiring peoples, rent parties were

also as a reaction to exclusion from visible, white-dominated gay and lesbian bars. While white lesbians needed only to hear of a bar and go without knowing anybody, Black lesbians needed to make a connection to at least one person in the gay social scene to locate spaces that would not bar her for her 89

skin color. Once her connection to Black lesbian community networks was in place, she could quickly learn of the locations and times of house parties and thereby become full participants in Black same-sex desiring culture. Black lesbians could go to house parties with the assurance of being allowed in at the door, while white lesbian bars were notorious for racist practices, particularly "carding" at the door (requests for excessive identification), a strategy to keep Black women out of white lesbian bars. Narratives from

Black lesbians who did patronize white lesbian bars report trouble with bouncers barring them because of perceived sexual identity (particularly femme Black women who were denied entrance because they didn't "look" like lesbians) or because of a racist perception of the "threat" that a group of

Black women in a bar might present to white lesbians (marking the bar as dangerous, potentially violent) (Thorpe 1996: 48). House parties were all the more appealing in the face of white-dominated lesbian bars that were often hostile to Black lesbians. Although "the lesbian community" is often referred to as a cohesive group based on sexual identity, histories oflesbian socializing often hinge on space organized around race.

In Detroit, African American lesbians often avoided nightclubs entirely in favor of house parties because of the potential for police raids, the possibility of violence or chances of being seen by "someone indiscreet or malicious" (Thorpe 1996: 57). As Rochelle Thorpe writes, "since bars were open to the public, heterosexuals wandered in unknowingly or came purposefully" and lesbians "had little faith in their discretion" (1996: 58). In 90

Detroit, a "blind pig," was a space-- often someone's home-- where "after the bars closed African American lesbians and gay men could participate in both the public bar scene and the house party tradition" (Thorpe 1996: 60). "At the bars they would pass out little cards," recalls Renee McCoy (Thorpe 1996: 60) to spread the word about house parties meant just for Black gays and lesbians, providing a Black same-sex friendly environment as well as an alternative to the bar space. Hosting house parties was a way to provide events and tum a profit--"a practical alternative for people who wanted to make money by hosting social events but were unable to open a bar" (1996: 60). House parties didn't require a liquor license nor a business loan nor did it require anyone to be out of the closet-all necessary for owning or running a visible, public gay or lesbian bar space.

As Brett Beemyn' s account of DC house party traditions among

African-Americans observes, "racial, gender and class segregation in

Washington bars contributed to the popularity of house parties among African

Americans, especially among Black women" (Beemyn 1997: 190). Following

World War II:

a growing gay populations in these years transformed numerous bars and all-night cafeterias into places where people interested in same-sex sexual relationships could meet others like themselves and socialize together in public ... but since many of the new establishments were restricted by law or practice to white middle-class men, the institutionalization of gay life in a Southern city like Washington contributed to the entrenchment of race, class and gender segregation. (Beemyn 1997: 6) 91

While Black same-sex desiring peoples rarely visited social spaces outside of

Washington D.C. Black neighborhoods, Pat Hamilton in Beemyn's essay remembers, "We didn't really have to go downtown, because we had everything up here [in the Black section of Northwest Washington] we needed-all of the theaters ... [and] many, many movies and plenty of clubs"

(Beemyn 1997: 202). In fact, Beemyn finds that some D.C. Black socializing was so insulated that some thought Blacks were a majority in the city, when in fact, during the decade following WWII, Washington D.C. was less than one­ third Black (Beemyn 1997: 202). These patterns of socializing allowed Black same-sex desiring peoples to "maintain both a strong sense of racial identification and close links to the city's Black community at large" (Beemyn

1997: 202). Consequently, many Black same-sex desiring people in

Washington "lived out their sexual preferences within the confines of their home communities" (Beemyn 1997: 202).

This history and influence of insular socializing among working class

Black same-sex desiring peoples continues today. As Jocelyn Maria Taylor's experience at Tracks in Washington D.C. in 1990 demonstrates, "living out" one's "preferences" in Black neighborhoods does not always lead to tolerance or acceptance from fellow Black folks. However, it can lead to the creation of new spaces designed to celebrate Black same-sex desiring women (and it did). 92

Maintaining (and Breaking) Black Sexual Silences

In Washington D.C., around the comer from Club 55 (traditional strip

club, Black-centric), Jocelyn Maria Taylor, a DC native, Black lesbian­

identified former stripper, visited Tracks, a warehouse-style nightclub which hosted a regular lesbian dance night for women of all colors. She wrote about her 1990 experience in this Washington D.C. warehouse-style nightclub took place at an ongoing "monthly soiree for lesbians" and "was an anxiously awaited event that attracted predominantly Black women from the city and

suburbs" (Taylor 1995: 36) because it was a turning point for her understanding of Black women's lack of access to spaces where their bodies

and nudity were valued and celebrated. Surrounded by throngs of sweating women, moving together on the pulsing dancefloor, her friend Teresa nudged her and they took off their shirts, baring their breasts to engage in a "topless

'action' at one of the few women's bars in Washington" (Taylor 1995: 36).

As they moved to the music on the dancefloor, for a few brief moments, their shared nudity injected a new level of camaraderie and connection for Jocelyn that night at Tracks: this is our space, right here, right now, for us.

However, other Black women standing near the bar focused on Taylor, laughed at her and called her a 'freak.' They implied that she was one of those women "who have no sexual boundaries and who are "indiscriminate' about their sexual encounters" (Taylor 1995: 37) and that she was "not conducting [her] self in a way that was appropriate for a Black woman"

(Taylor 1995: 39). As another Black woman on the dancefloor moved to the 93

music, she took her jeans off and her panties began to inch down her body; seeing the reaction of the Black women judging her, Taylor began to feel even more panicked for the Black woman without her jeans. Taylor found that although she shared the dance club space at Tracks that night with women who desired women, they did not all view her toplessness as liberation. It was not a white bouncer staff ignoring her or a male patron accosting her-it was her own Black sisters at a lesbian night at Tracks judging her nudity and attempting to shame her into putting her clothes back on.

The club owner chided her for actions which, he felt, put his club at risk. Taylor writes that, "ultimately, he was most concerned with defending his investment" and didn't want bad publicity or anything that would negatively affect his "profitable relationship with the queer community"

(Taylor 1995: 40). After the police officers he had called left the premises, the club owner then granted "permission" for the ladies to remove their tops.

Taylor was outraged by the notion that the white male club owner would assert an entitlement to grant "permission." She noticed that, although "about

70 percent [of the women in the club] were Black" but "of the thirty or so women who went topless, over twenty were white" (Taylor 1995: 41). She continues, "I need a haven where I know that I'm okay and protected ...

[where] I will watch your back if you will watch mine" (Taylor 1995: 44).

The policing of her body at Tracks led to Taylor creating (if not the first, among the first) Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance parties in New York City. 94

Gay and lesbian dominant culture has its own history of prescribing

"proper" behavior, relegating hate crimes, homophobia and even HIVI AIDS

as the result of being "too free" with one's body, having "too much sex." As

Douglas Crimp describes Kirk and Madsen's criticism of gay culture, we

bring on our own destruction through refusing to "deny our difference" and

our unwillingness to "'clean up our act' ... purging our community of

'"fringe' gay groups" -drag queens, radical fairies, pederasts, bull dykes, and

other assorted scum" (Crimp 1989: 13). Judging one another for "bringing

shame on us all" is not limited to middle and upper class Black women's

opinions of working class Black women's sexuality. The concern over the

dominant gaze extends to same-sex desiring communities and for Taylor, her

experience at Tracks represented the fact that Black women are culturally

encouraged to desexualize their bodies (even or perhaps especially among

other Black women) and that a space dedicated to body-positivity, nudity and

sexuality between Black women had not yet emerged-and that such a space was necessary.

Imagining an Erotic Utopia for Women of Color

Two weeks after her experience at Tracks, Jocelyn Maria Taylor

created The Clit Club with her friend Julia in 1990 in New York City. The

Clit Club was a regular evening club night for women featuring female go-go

dancers, the latest music mix and sex-positive, homoerotic images of women projected on a blank wall. Unwilling to accept the notion that all Black 95

women were satisfied with the current state of clubs and had no desire for nudity-affirmative erotic spaces, Taylor suggested that women of color have their own club night on their own terms. Not just any women's club night, but a sex-positive, no-apologies experience. Taylor, with her friend Julie

Tolentino, imagined a space that celebrating women's same-sex desire, particularly featuring women of color, both in the visual material splashed on the walls (still erotic photos, pomography,etc.) and representation in the women who attended:

So, when I met Julie, and, I remember this discussion vividly ... I said, "Julie, I cannot believe there's all this going on for boys and nothing for girls. What is this about?" And I think we ... just started talking about starting our own night. She had a few contacts, she knew women who might perform and her girlfriend at the time, Lola, was a photographer and had been doing some lesbian erotica. (Jocelyn Maria Taylor, interview with author, June 29, 2006)

As Taylor and Tolentino came up with the names of those who could help, their "worldmaking" changed from the imagined to the actual. Rather than imagining Tracks as a sex-positive, nudity-welcoming space, they imagined a space of their own, surrounded by all of the spatial elements needed to make it work.

Like the slave parties, safety and protection were key. In an interview in Policing Public Sex, Taylor says about women's public sexual culture:

... there is a serious issue of safety. Whereas men have sort of the permission to go about their sexuality in a public way, outside of out of doors, this is not something that is as easily available or permissible for women ... women doing and women watching- there's an element of safety there that doesn't exist in many other situations. lfl were to draw parallels, women's public sexuality right now tends to happen 96

more indoors ... Indoors could be a public bathroom, but it's still not a public park. (Thomas 1996: 63-64)

In other words, the creation of safe, public sexual culture for women

(particularly women of color) is a space which happens indoors. As Taylor states, it may be an indoor space, but still quite public.

Understanding the struggle to make such public sexual culture

"available" and "permissible," Taylor and Tolentino took steps to protect the space and keep it safe for women. Yet, there was nothing "safe" about the name of this new utopia:

And "what are we going to call it?" because we knew it had to be spectacular. We knew it had to be a body part so we called it the Clit Club. We were so jazzed about that name, because we thought that-­ and we were right-- we thought it was going to be ... talk about a defining moment. Talk about redefining what girls night out was. It was like the formula. The boys had the formula and we basically usurped it for our own reason... (Jocelyn Maria Taylor, interview with author, June 29, 2006)

The Clit Club was a private event, geared especially for women- and the privacy allowed women to fully enjoy the space and express themselves:

So there were all these things that made it work, that made it underground. Having that kind of privacy is really important to women. Without really knowing how important it was, we had this space. Everyone loved the fact that they were rubbing up against strangers ... sexy slides and people were like going to the bathrooms and having sex or into the comers. And the word "clit," of course, made it. (Jocelyn Maria Taylor, interview with author, June 29, 2006)

The Clit Club was "private" in the way that Beryl Bellman defines

"private," as different from but related to "secret." "Private" refers to that which another person "does not have a right to ... because of his or her social distance" (Bellman 1981: 4) and is a function of how people use and occupy 97

the space. There was nothing inherently "private" about the venue The Clit

Club appropriated. The Clit Club maintained a sense of security by limiting entrance to women only and yet, the event operated "in public," with all the risks and challenges that go with that. Groups of straight men sometimes mistook The Clit Club as a party arranged for them, seeing the women streaming into the entrance, asking the female bouncer about the large groups of women seen going in, eager to enter with the presumption that women would outnumber the men, making it a hetero-male club paradise. Because

The Clit Club did not use signs or external indicators with the name of the event, only women who had been told about or who had received the flyer could locate the space as being this entity known as The Clit Club for the evenmg:

But in the beginning we'd have groups of young straight men wanting to come in. "Oh, there must be a party going on here" and they'd ask, you know, "Is it ladies' night?" And it was like, "yeah ..." (laughing) (Jocelyn Maria Taylor, interview with author, June 29, 2006)

Contrary to the assumption .that social spaces "full of women" are designed to attract male attention (with traditional strip clubs among the most explicit manifestation of this dynamic), the Clit Club offered a "privately public" erotic space for women.

Balancing the line between public and private is, as Taylor says,

"tricky." Taylor takes care to point out that the Clit Club was "very cautiously on this line already, between visibility and underground. Its duality is tricky" (Thomas 1996: 64). Being aware ofthe "possibility of confronting 98

real danger for being a really out lesbian club" (Thomas 1996: 65) doesn't just result from the passersby who mistake the space as a straight male paradise.

The vision was not one ofheteromale utopia, but of women of color seeking a space of sexual possibility, to take on, as Taylor says, the difficult task of offering women the opportunity to say, "I'm going to be the object of someone else's desire," understanding that "for Black women, it's doubly difficult to see oneself as the object" (Thomas 1996: 68).

Sexual Silence, Sexual Freedom

As Jocelyn Maria Taylor did that night at Tracks in 1990 and in her imagining a new world where women of color could be openly, bodily sexual with one another, Evelynn Hammonds also confronts legacies of mandated

Black sexual silences. She calls this theorizing the "black (w)hole" theory of sexuality- that black women are doomed to be defined by the histories which racialized their sexualities and are silent about sex out of necessity.

Hammonds explains that the strategy of silence firstly, "did not achieve its goal of ending negative stereotyping of black women. And second, some middle-class black women engaged in policing the behavior of poor and working-class women and any who deviated from a Victorian norm in the name of protecting the 'race' ... Finally, one of the most enduring and problematic aspects of the 'politics of silence' is that in choosing silence black women also lost the ability to articulate any conception of their [own] sexuality'' (Hammonds 1994: 133). 99

Hammonds' extension of the "black (w)hole" analogy states that "the observer outside of the hole sees it as a void, an empty place in space"

(Hammonds 2004: 310). Drawing a connection to atmospheric black holes, she explains, "A binary star system is one that contains two bodies which orbit around each other under mutual gravitational attraction ... a visible apparently

'normal' star in close orbit with another body such as a black hole, which is not seen optically. The existence of the black hole is inferred from the fact that the visible star is in orbit and its shape is distorted in some way ... "

(Hammonds 2004: 310). In other words, the black hole is known not for what it is, but what the star orbiting around it indicates. Using this analogy, what white female sexuality is or should be is the only visible evidence for what

Black female sexuality is or should be.

Ultimately, Hammonds concludes that if black women can choose silence as a strategy concerning sexuality, they can also choose to be vocal, visible and heard. Particularly concerning black women in the academy, she questions why black academics avoid discussions of sexuality. "This avoidance of theorizing about sexuality can be read as one contemporary manifestation of their structured silence. I want to stress here that the

'silence' about sexuality is no more a 'choice' than was the silence practiced by early twentieth-century black women. This production of silence instead of speech is an effect of the institutions such as the academy which are engaged in the commodification of Otherness. While hypervisibility can used 100

to silence black women academics it can also serve them" (Hammonds 2004:

135).

Likewise, black feminist theorizing about sexuality (with a few noted exceptions) usually produces a focus on heterosexuality. "If we accept the existence of the 'politics of silence' as an historical legacy shared by all black women, then certain expressions of black female sexuality will be rendered as dangerous, for individuals and for the collectivity" (Hammonds 2004: 137).

Hammonds declares, "I want to argue that black queer female sexualities should be seen as one of the sites where black female desire is expressed"

(Hammonds 2004: 136). In other words, "since silence about sexuality is being produced by black women and black feminist theorists, that silence itself suggests that black women do have agency. A focus on black lesbian sexualities, I suggest, implies that another discourse-other than silence-can be produced" (Hammonds 2004: 137).

I agree that a focus on Black lesbian sexualities (for this project, Black same-sex desiring women's spaces) and unpacking the histories of the ways in which Black women have resisted sexual silences culturally imposed upon them. Noting Hammonds' use of "black queer female sexualities" here, I return to a question at stake in this project: what does this reveal about the utility and future of the "Black queer studies" political direction? In some ways, the ways that "queer" focuses on sexual object choice does highlight the ways in which (particularly working class) Black women have asserted their sexuality throughout history, exposing the ways in which pressures on middle 101

class Black women to be sexually silent could appear to be applicable to all

Black women equally (and, notably, Darlene Clark Hine makes no class distinction among Black women in her discussion of dissemblance). I do agree with Hammonds that a focus on sexuality leads to the revelation of how silence has been imposed on Black women's sexuality, class differences among Black women, the variations in expectations of behavior and the meanings assigned them. However, ultimately, I agree with Cathy Cohen when she writes, "class or material privilege is a cornerstone of much of queer politics and theory" and can lead to ignoring "the ways in which some traditional social identities and communal ties can, in fact, be important to one's survival" (Cohen 2005: 34). Cohen states that, without the material independence to declare oneself free from histories of multiple oppressions,

"in those stable categories and named communities whose histories have been structured by shared resistance to oppression, I find relative degrees of safety and security" (2005: 35). Thus, the histories presented in this chapter are crucial to our understanding of how Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance parties came to exist. They did not appear randomly or independently of rent parties, house parties, "blind pigs,'' separately from

Black neighborhoods or Black churches- no matter how homophobic such spaces may be at times. To "queer" the spaces as resistant only to heteronormativity erases all of the other simultaneous struggles that gave rise to the events, which must include the truth about the ways in which white gay and lesbian bars historically excluded Black same-sex desiring peoples. 102

Additionally, a queer reading of Black women's sexuality and use of space could lead to prescriptions of abandoning Black heterosexual communities in an effort to pursue Black sexual freedom for same-sex desiring peoples. While there was some spatial separation historically, between Black hetero socializing and Black same-sex socializing, there were necessary proximities. Due to racial segregation in the city, Black heteros and homos had to co-exist spatially as best as they could. Given the histories of

Black secret party space production and the preference (and in many cases, need) to remain in one's own neighborhood to create safe same-sex space, how could sudden "queering" of Black space occur? A queer politics may tend to "demonize" heterosexuals and "discount those relationships­ especially those based on shared experiences of marginalization- that exist between gays and straights, particularly in communities of color" (Cohen

2005: 34). To impose "queer" onto their usage of space would erase the ways in which Black same-sex desiring peoples found common ground with Black heterosexuals, as well as the important ways in which Black same-sex desiring peoples may decide to exclude or reject one another (due to differences in class, gender, etc.)

Erotic Parties as a Site of Resistance

Black women's same-sex desiring erotic parties provide a space where same-sex sexual desire is out loud, visible, front and center. What is unspoken is the unifying, agreed-upon understanding that this is a safe place 103

to be open and enthusiastic. The resulting atmosphere of celebration and appreciation places Black female bodies at the center of audience attention and desire. Among all the differences and dimensions which make each event unique, the core value unifying all Black women's parties is the Black female subject-- positioning Black women as those who appreciate other Black women the most.

Angel defines the reasons Black women go, as well as why she herself attends (and enjoys) strip events:

We go there to look at ass. And you know, we wanna see some pretty women shake it up, you know? Especially-- If I know I'm going to club and there's gonna be dancers there, you know, I'm hyped. I wanna see them get busy, and you know, do the damn thing. I wanna see some nice bodies movin' ... I feel, I think we feel it is a comfortable space, a safe space for us to go and enjoy the entertainment-- we also feel free to express ourselves and not be intimidated ... It's a safe haven basically. It's comfortable. Everybody in there knows why everyone's there. We all looking at the same thing and we all have the same thing on our minds. And we all have a certain level of respect for everyone in the space. There are unspoken rules in spaces like that. (Angel Tavares, interview with author, January 28, 2005)

In other words, Black same-sex desiring women's erotic parties serve as spaces for Black women to redefine not just Black women's sexuality, but

Black women's same-sex sexuality and desire. Rather than shame or silence, erotic parties are spaces where Black women's same-sex desire is to be celebrated and articulated out loud, where "looking at ass" is a positive, liberating act, a way to celebrate her own Black body through celebrating that of her Black sister. Through the creation of comfortable spaces where Black women are centrally valued, these redefinitions of the Black female body 104

emerge. Black same-sex desiring women's erotic parties break sexual silences deliberately and with purpose: to continue the tradition of Black women defining their bodies, sexualities and desires for themselves. In

Chapter Four, I delve into the ways in which the spaces selected for the events reveal the priorities and needs of Black same-sex desiring women in

Washington D.C., shaping the utopian vision and realization of their parties. CHAPTER4

PUBLIC/PRIVATE, COMMUNITY/INDIVIDUAL: CONSIDERATIONS WHEN SELECTING EVENT SPACE

Just as there is tension between public and private at Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance parties, meanings around community benefit and individual gain compete with one another and shape the space.

This chapter investigates the motivations to create, attend and perform for

Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance events. In the case of audience members, they cited a search for relaxation, acceptance, spending time in a "nice, classy place." Promoters expressed tensions between entrepreneurial motivations (financial gain) and providing a supportive community atmosphere with a public health emphasis for Black women or fundraising for community needs (with HIV/AIDS being among the most common). Performers were themselves seeking acceptance and fun as they performed for audiences, wanting to create a fun atmosphere for their viewers as they expressed enjoyment in their performances. What these participants' words reveal is the range of motivations and expectations Black women have of the events, indicating the variety of ways the events must meet the needs of all who are involved. Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance events must meet all of these needs simultaneously to be successful and while

105 106

promoters, audience members and performers do not share the risk equally or in the same ways, their words indicate that they do take a risk in their involvement. That they accept the risk indicates how important the events are to them.

Considerations When Selecting a Space

There are basics for any large club event for any group of people, but promoters of these events must go further and locate spaces which fulfill additional needs for the Black same-sex desiring women's erotic parties­ needs for secrecy, privacy, safety, comfort, "classiness," a place for status performances, community-building and money-making. As we've seen in previous chapters, fear of difference can lead to selections of space which

"contain" sexuality and allows "anything goes" atmospheres "as long as it doesn't impinge on the rights of others, in this case defined as not having to think about sexual activities different from one's own" (Mitchell 2000: 177).

Following Mitchell's' commentary on public and private divide and the containment of sexual difference, the "sex" aspects of the parties must be kept separate from the world outside, in the District-separate (and protected) from the commercial interests of the surrounding businesses, separate from the work lives of the Black women in the space as well as separate from the club owner's liability if local nudity statutes are perceived to be violated. In other words, promoters must confront the real risks and demands placed upon them 107

by choosing a space that will minimize their risk and meet the demands of their audience.

The public/private divide facilitated the creation of same-sex women's community, D.C. racial segregation facilitated Black women's community and the "forgotten" areas of the city (to steer clear of tourist areas) became the stage for erotic performance events for Black same-sex desiring women.

However, these same opportunities are also a liability for Black same-sex desiring women appropriating space for sexual expression. Especially in the case of using nightclub spaces (rather than a gay male strip club space) for performances of sexual difference instead of its "original" use (for performances of heterosexuality), Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance space usage can draw attention to the subversion taking place inside. Ifheteronormativity dictates that "heterosexuality is seen as fully, and exclusively, natural," it follows that "any deviation ought to be corrected or punished [through] the exercise of power" (Mitchell 2000: 179). Thus, the consequences of selecting a space are crucial to its s~lection and indeed,

"struggles over sexual identity ... produce space" (Mitchell 2000: 180).

Before examining the larger cultural and societal risks one takes when planning or attending a Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance party in Washington D.C. (Chapter Five), there are obvious basic essentials for anyone selecting a space for a large performance event in a club venue.

The space must be large enough to accommodate the anticipated crowd

(anywhere from one hundred ladies to nearly a thousand). It must have a 108

performance area for dancers and performers, whether that is a dance floor, stage or just the ability to create an open area at some moment during the event. It must have a sound system capable of achieving high volume and the needed equipment to play recorded music. Most nightclub spaces and some restaurants typically meet these basic criteria and play host to concerts, shows,

DJs and dancing. Black same-sex desiring erotic events must be able to accommodate the crowd and the focal point (performance). Costs, profits and location are also important, but in ways which are specific to Black same-sex desiring women and their needs.

In interviews, many Black same-sex desiring women expressed that their income levels and household responsibilities compound the need for an

affordable, fun time out at the parties. Discretionary income is spent with the

goal to get the most for their entertainment dollar and many told me they

strategized their spending and attendance at events. Although audiences

might not complain directly to promoters, audience members would talk to their friends about the parties that were affordable for them and met their

expectations (and about the events that were not). Riley Parker (pseudonym),

an audience member who works for the District as a bus driver, explained to

me:

You can blow 50 dollars instantly, from admission to drinks. And if you're like me, you can't afford to do 50 dollars at every event, especially if you're bringing somebody ... Most of us have kids. We can't stay out late, because we have kids. (Riley Parker, interview with author, September 18, 2005) 109

Events must deliver entertainment at a reasonable cost for the particular needs of the audience. In this case, events must be affordable and be a sufficient return on the money for the audience in order for the space to be accessible to them.

Black women who couple with women are often of a lower socio­ economic status in the United States for many interlocking reasons concerning gender and race. These include workplace and earnings racism, sexism. A report based on the 2000 United States Census finds that, "when compared with Black opposite-sex couples and white same-sex couples, Black same-sex couples are more likely to parent children and earn a lower annual income .... [and] are more likely to work in the public sector, relying on domestic partner health insurance, and serve in the military, where they could lose income and benefits for serving openly" (Dang and Fraser: 2004). All of these elements influence and shape the ways the space is appropriated for events.

Thus, for many Black same-sex desiring women who attend events, privacy is crucial as, in addition to the unique pressures and judgments Black women face for open erotic expression with one another, they must also consider the impact of this particular form of entertainment on the lives of their children. While erotic events are reserved for those over 18 (more often,

21 ), children of Black same-sex desiring women need not attend the events to suffer the consequences if their parents are deemed "unfit," because of their sex lives. Riley takes her son to drag performances but recognizes that 110

authorities (and even those at the events) may claim such performances could make their children "turn gay":

I'm a mother of a 16 year old son. He's now 16. He's cool with my lifestyle. I can bring him around the drag queens. I'm comfortable taking my son places but other people.aren't. You know, 'what if my son or my daughter is gonna turn gay because I'm exposing them to this?' Especially with this world, the ways society feels about us. If the wrong eyes are watching us, 'this is child services, we're gonna take your kids.' (Riley Parker, interview with author, September 18, 2005)

The parties must be protected and secret, but the parties must take place in an area where the audience is already living or working (and, thus, easier and more affordable to travel for). Attendance will be low ifthe event is difficult to get to, far away, in an unfamiliar part of the city or too expensive. This is true of any large party event in the city targeted to a particular group of people, but this is especially so for Black same-sex desiring women because of disposable income levels and parenting demands.

What could appear to be limiting aspects of location for the event (remaining in Black-dominant neighborhoods) end up working in favor of party success and longevity.

Finally, as this is an entrepreneurial endeavor, none of these events can continue if the promoter's event income is not sufficient to pay event staff and security, pay for the rental space, cover expenses and turn a profit for themselves. Venue rental costs are the main expense for many club-hosted events and the same is true for erotic parties. However, costs are crucial to the

Black same-sex desiring women's erotic events in particular because a low 111

rental price in a good location where audience members can reach it and afford it means the event can continue at that space. A reliable location ensures repeat business, especially since events are so often reliant on word­ of-mouth, biogs, emails and pre-printed postcards to advertise. While these methods are highly effective for informing Black women about the details of the parties, they do not all communicate changes rapidly and uniformly.

However, once the recurring party schedule is established, ladies know when and where to arrive next time. Because the need for privacy determines the ways in which the parties can be advertised, the predictable recurring dates makes advertising virtually unnecessary for those who are already attending that event.

On top of all of these considerations for their events, promoters are well aware of the competition for Black same-sex desiring women's entertainment. Multiple promoters offer erotic parties for Black same-sex desiring women in the city and surrounding areas. Competition for attendance and financial resources (and therefore, profits) means that a promoter must, at a minimum, offer the expected event "basics" to have a chance at a successful event. However, for the event to continue, a promoter must offer something new and unique, something that another promoter is not offering so that her event stands out and gathers the needed momentum to continue month after month. Her time, money and energy to locate and secure a space, negotiate prices, arrange dancers, DJs, emcees and other talent-all of these add up.

Promoters invest resources upfront when they decide to create an event: 112

printing flyers and similar advertising, friends and associates to distribute the

advertising, actual space rental, a commitment of minimum compensation for

performers and the emcee as well as the DJ reservation.

When a space allows a promoter to bring all the elements together in

sync, an event can last for years and develop a devoted following but if one

element does not fully meet the needs of the audience, an event may not last

long enough to happen again the next week (or next month, depending on the particular event). When a promoter finds a space that fulfills all the needs of her audience and develops a successful relationship with the club owner, that arrangement is very valuable to her (and to her audience and performers) and worth protecting. Once located, the promoter stays there as long as possible because a successful space is such and important aspect of a successful party.

A stable location allows promoters build momentum with a regular crowd who can return to the next event each time it is held. In the changing

landscape of Washington DC, where condo builders easily outbid club owners, strip clubs are deemed not worth defending and cheap land (once discarded by the city) is suddenly reframed as an opportunity for developers to clear out "unwanted" buildings to make way for more culturally valued spaces such as a baseball stadium. A common strategy for many urban cities is to

convert "troubled" spaces into their "better" uses (high-traffic tourist areas,

shopping areas, new residential zones, etc.) and, as such, suitable party spaces can be hard to come by. 113

Just as events jockey for position around the city, so too do the people within the spaces. There are a variety of interrelated motivations, interests and priorities for the people involved at all levels of the events and here, I'll

focus on four main results of the parties, which are: entrepreneurial/profit­ based, having an outlet to relax and socialize safely, creating community

(including providing a "nice" and "classy" place for women to go as well as on-site health resources) and the pursuit of status and notoriety. While promoters' choice of space makes visible the ideological and determining pressures and limits they face, motivations for creating and maintaining an

event reveal the pressures and limits of life outside the party atmosphere. For

Black same-sex desiring women, making enough money (promoters and

performers), having a nice place to relax, creating community and having

social status are hard to find and hard to do in a culture that does not value nor reflect their priorities. As such, they appropriate spaces to address these realities and establish their own rules, values, priorities. The events are asked

(and expected) to provide what the larger cultural environment (the world

outside the club) does not.

Individual, Entrepreneurial Motivations

Given the time and effort invested in Black women's parties in

Washington, promoters and performers must bring in sufficient return on their

investment to make it worth their while and create future events. Former

promoter, Di Collins, explains that initially, money was what attracted her to 114

pursuing a party promotion business, but she soon ran into struggle with the well-established promoters whom she reported viewed her as competition. In our interview, Di reports, "all I saw was that line going around the club, that's all I saw. I really didn't see all this other stuff [politics among promoters]"

(Di Collins, interview with author, January 29, 2005). She attributes personal greed on the part of her former event photographer and the treachery of another promoter as the reasons why she lost her photographer, and subsequently, when she says her event efforts proved ultimately unsuccessful.

Although, she does seem to recognize the contradictions of asking him to put up some seed money and then to wait to be paid for his photography services when he would be paid faster (and possibly more) ifhe worked for another, more established promoter, Di explains:

It was about the money but that came in time. I knew that wasn't going to come overnight and he didn't have the wherewithal to be patient with me, whereas with my competitor taking pictures over there at my competitors. You getting paid because she has the crowd. Over there with me, you almost getting paid, plus you goin in half, so you really not getting paid (laughing). And you know the crowd is dwindling. So he chose money over future money, over being loyal and stickin' it out. (Di Collins, interview with author, January 29, 2005)

Some are highly critical of the pursuit of profit in the party business.

Riley criticizes promoters and performers who say they're supporting the community but, in her mind, put their own profit above lesbian community- making:

The bottom line with the gay community as a whole, especially lesbians, we know we have to stick together. But in all actuality, "I have to make more money than you." That's the problem. We vocally 115

say, yes, we need to speak out. But in actuality, "I'm worried about myself' and that's the problem. (Riley Parker, interview with author, September 18, 2005)

In addition to promoters, Riley also recognizes the crucial role of performers at events and questions the motivations of a few performers in particular, when it comes to monetary pursuits:

For example, Ace [pseudonym, an emcee]. She's well known. But she only comes out when there's money. When it's Gay Pride, she's there. There's a few performers, they're not out there except to make money. If these people were willing to come out more, the gay community would be larger and we would have more events. It's hard now to, to find a place to have the events, um, set up the events. And in some cases to have security. It's hard to get all this set up. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, which is my favorite saying, everybody's out for themselves. (Riley Parker, interview with author, September 18, 2005)

Part of the limitations on the events are that promoters must be able to make money to continue the events and yet, maintain their focus on serving the community and make sure it's clear they're doing it for the "right reasons" rather than be perceived as exploitive or self-centered (financial success) motivations, at the expense of audiences, dancers and the community generally.

Having a "Nice" Place for the Community

A motivation to make the space "classy" was a common theme among promoters and wanting a "nice place" to go to perform and dance came up for audience members and performers alike. Vicki Harris reported that her goal for Soft N Wet was to "take the dirty out of stripping" so that Black same-sex 116

desiring women would feel it was respectful to them, to the dancers and that they could enjoy it fully without worry of being judged by those outside the parties. As a response to the requirements of their spaces (privacy, comfort, accessibility, etc.) and having limitations on where the event can talce place, the effort to malce the space and event "classy" and "nice" is an attempt to exert what control they do have. The philosophy is, "If this is the place we're going to have, it might as well be the nicest, classiest space we can make it" to try and offer a "respectable" place.

According to Mignon Moore, having a "nice, classy" place could refer to "middle-class." Her work on Black lesbian gender shows how masculine gender presentation can be negatively interpreted as "damaging" to Black lesbian-identified spaces:

At parties, women who wore athletic jerseys, do-rags on their heads, or baseball caps were said to lower the quality or status of the events, and other lesbians would react to their presence in a visibly negative way. Flyers announcing the latest party would often include the following warning, 'No caps, do-rags, or athletic wear: Dress to impress.' (Moore 2006: 132)

When Moore herself hosted a party, "a few of the women who attended were dressed in athletic jerseys and fitted caps" but that, "other than their style of dress, they did not stand out in any obvious way," yet, "several women complained that I had 'let those type of people' into the party. They said things like, 'they bring the party down'; 'we work so hard to get away from them, only to have them turn up at a classy event like this one"' (Moore 2006:

132). She connects it to the class of the women complaining, identifying the 117

"harshest critics" as "middle-class gender-blending1 lesbians" who "wanted to be distinguished from this particular masculine expression of black sexuality"

(Moore 2006: 132).

This is not to say that masculine-presenting Black women do not attend the events. They do-- sometimes, as performers as well as attendees.

The point I am illustrating is that the desire for a "nice, classy" place is a response to concerns that "too many" Black women in the space will devalue it-recall the examples earlier of Black women being "carded" to get into lesbian clubs (where white lesbians predominated) and racist worries that "too many Black folks" will bring drugs, violence and other assorted social ills ascribed to Black people generally. Because the Black same-sex desiring women's erotic party spaces are at risk of harassment and closure, the emphasis on "nice" and "classy" helps to minimize that risk by setting an

"upscale" tone for both the attendees and any police conducting surveillance of Black-dominant spaces in DC.

Defining the erotic party space as "nice" and "classy" also stands in opposition to negative stereotypes of traditional strip clubs. Angel says of her favorite club, "You can eat and have drinks and just dance and socialize with your friends. It's very tight, nicely appointed in there. I really enjoy it"

(Angel Tavares, interview with author, January 28, 2005). For Angel, the

1 "Gender-blender is a style related to but distinct from an androgynous presentation of self... Rather than a de-emphasis on femininity or masculinity, gender-blenders wear certain men's clothing like pants or shoes, combined with something less masculine like a form-fitting shirt or a little makeup. Sometimes their clothes are not specifically men's clothes but are tailored, conservative women's items worn in a less feminine style" (Moore 2006: 124-125). 118

ability to socialize with friends is connected to the space being "tight"

(extraordinarily great or special) and "nicely appointed" (well-equipped, well- furnished) with available food, good drinks and space to ''just dance," speaking to the qualities of the space itself and how much a role the space plays in her enjoyment. Angel's assessment of her favorite space for events speaks to the need, not just for a space, but for a "nice" space. In addition to her references to class, her comments hearken back to reputations of traditional strip clubs as being "seedy," "nasty" or just plain "gross" as well as that oflesbian clubs being "a hole in the wall," small (literally, 'tight') and suffering from neglect or wear in its plumbing or amenities for lack of financial resources to fix and update the space or by virtue of an aging building unable to withstand extended use. Black women may not agree on how their particular representational space for their parties is read, but they are very clear that a space's class indicators can enhance a party's reputation or become a liability, increasing police surveillance or other local harassment.

An Outlet for Individual and Group Relaxation

For audiences, the desire to get together with friends and unwind after a week of work are often cited as central to going to the events. Riley tells me:

We usually get together in a group, like-- my best friend, her co­ worker is the one who usually goes to the club a lot. So we usually defer to her, she knows where the good ones are. We worked hard and we ain't been to the club in months so we decide to go. (Riley Parker, interview with author, September 18, 2005) 119

For Riley (and many Black women who attend), the erotic events are a highly- anticipated social opportunity where she can bring her friends and know that they will be catered to and welcomed.

Performers similarly describe the event spaces as spaces of comfort, arenas for emotional release-and emphasize that their performances represent something personal for them, rather than a focus on monetary gain.

They talk about dancing as something they love doing, rather than "a job that pays the bills." Dancers repeatedly describe their experience as an "outlet," a

"getaway," referred to dancing as an "art," an "escape" from their other work or personal worries. Oohzee describes dancing as that for herself but also her hope that it brings others a similar calm:

It's just, I like being able to express myself. Dancing, for me, is like an emotional outlet for me. When I'm dancin', I'm not thinking about a bill that may be due... I like to dance, I like to feel like, you know, maybe if for 'bout a moment in time, whoever is watching is laughing, lusting-whatever, lookin', whatever right then, whatever problem they're going through, they're not thinkin' about it 'cause they're lookin' at what I'm

Oohzee's description stands in stark contrast to the mainstream portrayal of exotic dancers as morally questionable women tricking men out of their money by offering feigned attraction, interest and pretending to love them. Oohzee's discourse is focused squarely on the interplay of the pleasure of her audience and her own. Although Oohzee is very successful and among 120

the elite of Black women's same-sex desiring erotic party performers, she echoes the emphasis on community-making and bringing erotic escape for

Black same-sex desiring women.

For Star, a Black lesbian performer, her performances are an escape for her audience and a "getaway'' for her as well:

I am a local lesbian entertainer in Dallas, Texas and I want to start traveling to other lesbian nightclubs in the US ... I have been wanting to do this for years. I have been dancing for the past 10 years. I am also a receptionist. Dancing is what I enjoy. It's like a getaway for me at times. (Star, interview with author, February 21, 2005)

While performers do benefit financially from their performances (at least enough to continue performing), there is a tendency to focus on the hoped-for effects of their dancing: to relieve the stressors from the regular workday that dancers and audience members experience, to feel better and have fun together.

Unwinding after a week of work (both for dancers and for audience members) was a recurring theme and Black women's stress at work is well- documented in Charisse Jones and Kumea Shorter-Gooden's concept of

"shfiting." "Shifting," they argue, "is what she does when she speaks one way in the office, another way to her girlfriends, and still another way to her elderly relatives ... to shift is to work overtime when you are exhausted to prove that you are not lazy" (2003: 7). Ginny, explained her experience at work this way:

\.V'hen I'm at home, I'm Ginny, and when I'm at work I have to be Jennifer ... Everything has to change. Before I walk in the door I have to prep myself to be someone else. And when I come home, I'm so 121

stressed out. .. Jennifer is quiet. It's such a mask. I'm more uptight. It's such a front. I become a whole different person because I know that if I act the way that I act at home I won't be accepted. So now I have to act like the other girls. I have to be like this all day. I have to be on my guard. (Jones and Shorter-Gooden 2003: 148)

Numerous studies have found the stressors of race and gender on Black women in the workplace. Catalyst, "a nonprofit research and advisory organization, found that 56 percent of Black women were aware of stereotypes about Black women in the companies and 36 percent believed they needed to adjust their style to fit their work environment" (2003: 153).

Patricia describes "shifting" at work this way: "When you go to work, you have to weed through all the racism and stuff; and then, only then, do you get to do your job" (2003: 153).

When Black women's experiences at work are compounded with the pressure to stay in the closet and/or to conceal, downplay or explain a masculine gender presentation, it is little wonder that so many Black women seek an outlet to unwind. They repeatedly described valued the erotic parties as a space to relax, to be themselves and an escape from daily pressures and stressors. While they ranged in professions from working-class to office professionals, all expressed the comfort in being able to get their minds off of their jobs, bills or other troubles.

Individual Status in the Community

When it comes to systems of status at Black same-sex identified women's parties, Oohzee is the most famous, high-status name of all. 122

Possibly the most well-known performer at Black women's parties, Oohzee travels around the country to perform and she is famous among performers, promoters, audiences and clubs for her unique dance style, using themes in her performances and her wide variety of sexy, eye-catching costumes.

In our interview, Angel describes Oohzee with passionate enthusiasm:

First of all, she's beautiful. She's a fantastic dancer. And she's quite athletic too. She really puts a lot into her performances. She interacts with the patrons in her dances. She will bring Goldie with her and, oh boy, they did a nice strip together. They also did, uh, well, they brought out a big plastic sheet and soapy water and they both got on and wet themselves and slid across the floor on the tarpaulin and of course, they were interacting with each other. It was off the hook. What I love about her, she's beautiful to look at, a fantastic body. She can move her body very erotically. (Angel Tavares, interview with author, January 28, 2005)

In Dallas, Texas, Star aspires to travel to perform at Black women's parties and entertain around the country, like Oohzee does:

I have seen Oohzee dance for years, she is phenomenal! She is the reason why I want to start traveling, besides I can do so much more ifl traveled and I want to show all the lesbians that I can entertain as well. (Star, interview with author, February 21, 2005)

Star's goal is follow in Oohzee's footsteps and reach Oohzee's success level, but also to "show all the lesbians that I can entertain as well." There are a number of ways to interpret what she says here. First, she could be expressing a desire to perform "as well" as Oohzee. Or, she may be expressing a desire to "entertain" as well as strip. Or, it could be her wish to reach a wide variety of lesbians (as she says, "all the lesbians") around the country to entertain them, beyond her Dallas audience. In any of these cases, her determination to 123

make this change happen for her is grounded in her desire for status as a traveling, full-time performer at the level of Oohzee.

It is important for dancers who perform at Black women's parties to develop and cultivate a following in order to be successful. There are a number of ways dancers develop that following. First, dancers must perform enough that they are known to the audience but avoid being overexposed by performing at every event. There is a hierarchy of preferred events, although the rankings of events can change quickly as quality rises or falls, depending on a number of factors. Some events are considered "bigger" than others, depending on the promoter's popularity, the popularity level of the performers, the location of the event and so on. What was "big" last month may drop in status the next month, losing its position to another event. This is a symbiotic relationship for dancers: the particular promoter she works with or the event she performs at indicates the level of her status, performance and the anticipated income she can demand for her performance. A "big" event can elevate a dancer's status and, by the same token, the dancer's status can influence (positively or negatively) the status of the event.

Di calls these dancers "name brand" dancers: the performers who are well-known, who can pick and choose their events, where they want to perform and for whom. She says of her event, "ifl didn't have the crowd yet, and even if I didn't have the name brand talent yet- I had a strip club, I had three VIP booths and a pole and a big stage" (Di Collins, interview with author, January 29, 2005). Di emphasized her good choice of space and added 124

a new element (lapdances) to her parties. For Di, adding lapdances would make her events stand out from other Black women's parties in the area.

However, high status dancers express that status in terms of what they

'do not need to do' during their performances. This means not doing lap

dancing, characterized by its close contact, individual attention and perceived

proximity to prostitution (for its direct body contact element). In traditional

strip clubs, lapdancing often results in visible male arousal (penile erection)

and, though the customer's pants remain on, with prolonged pressure and

movement, a skilled lapdance can result in male orgasm (and extra tip money

for the dancer). Even if she's not a high-profile, high-status dancer, if a

dancer's goal is to become one, doing lapdances could interfere with her goal,

threatening the party's status as "classy" by offering something so explicitly

sexual, involving direct physical contact-a service that often gets traditional

strip clubs into "hot water" with the law because of all the opportunity to

stretch the rules between entertainment and prostitution. Like the negative

evaluation of do-rags and athletic jerseys at parties, offering lapdances is risky

because it can lower the status of the event. This isn't to say that Black

women don't want or don't enjoy lapdances from other women-or that they

don't happen at parties (they do). My point, rather, is that offering lapdances

as an event and doing them as a dancer has the potential to lower the status of

both (to outsider eyes and in the eyes of some Black women at the event) with

the capacity to attract negative attention and negative consequences for the

party and the Black women. Party promoters and dancers must weigh the 125

benefit with the risk. Sometimes, offering lapdances can be very profitable but only under very protected and carefully controlled circumstances. For instance, the only time in three years I ever had the opportunity to have a lapdance was at Wet/The Edge. Just as I did when I was a dancer in a traditional strip club, it took place in a secluded, back section of the club and the dancer was very careful to monitor her and my actions to ensure no rules or laws were broken. In the case of lapdancing, it is the dancer who must be mindful of the liabilities of this performance and she must enforce them to protect both herself and the customer, because she knows she will be the one punished for any infraction.

Famed and beloved performer, Oohzee, also understands the judgments placed on her and how they differ based on whether her audience is heteromale or same-sex desiring female. She distinguishes between these

audiences and her decision to aim her talent at a female fan base and how the

Black female-centric space provides a different experience for her as a

performer. She cites more appreciation from gay audiences in contrast to such hetero-male demands as "trickin'" and getting "nude":

I prefer the gay audience ... male, female, whatever. Because, they really ... accept, you know, the creativity, the art .... I don't do the nude thing, I don't do the trickin'. I'm not knockin' nobody because however you hustle or pay your bills or support your chirrin'2 is on you. But I just choose not to do that. I'm doin' fine, dancin' .... I have danced in front of women or gay men and you know, I never took off anything .... and still get the same amount of tips and the same amount of applause. And all that kinda stuff. Whereas sometimes, I'm not sayin' all [straight] men, but a lot of times, you know, they just

2 Black Southern for [children]. 126

ready to, you know ... [imitating the men] "don't stop!" They just want to see the butt cheeks and all that kinda stuff. And you know, I'm not a rump shaker. My rump don't shake. You know what I'm sayin'? (Taste of Oohzee: 2007)

This dynamic of status and identity as a name brand dancer caused an issue for Di's lapdance idea at her former event:

Those dancers- the dancers that are ... in the elite. Say, DC Badd Girls. They're a DC Badd Girl, they don't have to do lapdances. You know, that type of mentality. So, you know. They don't even do lapdances when they dance for men, so ... They had that mentality. You know, they're stars. It's beneath them, yeah. (Di Collins, interview with author, January 29, 2005)

Although limiting contact can increase a dancer's status and mystery with customers, dancers must be accessible enough to establish a following.

Often, dancers will shroud their personal lives in secrecy to protect their own privacy and that of a partner, their family members, etc. This secrecy also serves as cause for speculation as to their sexual identities, their relationship statuses and potential for their performances to be "authentic" expressions of desire for their audience members.

Angel describes her experience meeting Oohzee after seeing her perform in 2005, focusing on the time Oohzee took to chat with her, despite

Oohzee's rushed travel schedule and her not having eaten yet that night.

Angel is careful to mention these details in her story, to emphasize Oohzee's positive personality attributes associated with taking time for fans but also to revel in the rarity and value of this personal encounter, that Oohzee went out of her way to connect with Angel. Particularly in making her phone number 127

available to Angel, Oohzee's actions combine to become a flirtation with

Angel, as she describes it:

I got a chance to actually talk with her. She's very nice. She has a wonderful personality. I like the fact that that she took the time to speak with us after her performance. Actually, she and Goldie had to leave the next morning. She had not eaten anything, they had to fix her a sandwich and she was taking pictures and talking with us. Matter of fact, she even gave me her number. Because I had told her I would be in DC in May. May is my birthday and it's also DC Pride and I was wondering if she was gonna be there and she said she wasn't sure but she gave me her number so I could call her and check to see if she was going to be there and if so, I could find out where she was going to be. So, she's real cool. I like her, you know. (Angel Tavares, interview with author, January 28, 2005)

Angel's description foregrounds her enjoyment in the attention from Oohzee

and the social status Angel gains from her interaction with her in the space.

Out of the entire audience group, Oohzee gave Angel personal time and her

phone number, singling her out and making her special. A performer's

attention makes Angel visibly appreciated, cared for and valued by a high-

profile Black female performer in a space designed specifically to do just that.

Community and Group Support Systems

Contributing to the overall sense of a space which values and cares for

them, Black same-sex desiring women's erotic parties sometimes serve as a

health resource, providing wellness and support information (such as support

groups for Black lesbians, free breast cancer screenings and smoking

cessation kits). Events often act as a bridge between Black same-sex desiring 128

women and the community health resources which serve (or seek to serve)

them.

Why is this collaboration necessary? For Black same-sex desiring

women, a lack of health insurance coverage (unable to afford their own or

cannot access through a partner) can impact their ability to have access to

regular health care with a consistent health provider.

Black men and women in same-sex households in the U.S. are about 25% more likely than White men and women in same-sex households to hold public sector jobs (16% of Black same-sex partners hold public sector jobs, vs. 13% of White same-sex partners). Many municipalities and state governments now offer domestic partner health insurance to employees in same-sex relationships (along with spousal health insurance to married employees). Because most of the anti-marriage amendments currently under consideration in the U.S. go beyond banning same-sex marriage and either ban or threaten domestic partner health insurance, such initiatives are a disproportionate threat to Black men and women in same-sex households. (Dang and Fraser: 2004)

In addition to health insurance coverage issues, many lesbians and

women who partner with women3 may not have a health provider they trust

and, therefore, to whom they can come out about their sexuality. When health

providers administer inappropriate procedures (i.e.: all female patients must

undergo pregnancy testing as a matter of course) and medical background

questions ("Are you on birth control?") based on heteronormative

assumptions, women who partner with women cannot fully disclose their

identities or behaviors. Inappropriate questions or procedures also send the

message that the health provider is not tuned into or aware of the particular

3 Usually a blanket term used in medical and health settings to refer to women who have sexual contact with women, a descriptor that is not dependent on sexual identity (gay, straight, lesbian, bisexual, etc.) 129

health needs of women who partner with women. The Office on Women's

Health states, "past negative health care experiences can discourage a lesbian from seeking care in the future, including preventive and screening measures, which further jeopardizes her health" (Office on Women's Health 2000).

When women must be protective of their sexual identity and behavior or are treated poorly after they come out, they are less likely to disclose information concerning these areas of their lives. Going to the doctor becomes stressful and unpleasant, decreasing the odds same-sex desiring women will seek and receive regular health care.

Inviting DC same-sex desiring women's health organizations and

services was particularly prevalent and successful at Soft N Wet Afternoons at

4 the Wet club. "[Vicki] Harris •.• allowed the Mautner Project, a national lesbian health organization, to set up a breast self-examination booth. 'I'm very proud of that, because as African-American women, sometimes we don't take care of our health,' Harris says. As a result, five women, including a

dancer, found lumps but remain healthy thanks to the early detection. 'Soft N

Wet helped us find so many new clients and volunteers over the years,' says

Kathleen DeBold, executive director of the Mautner Project" (Volin 2006:1).

Many medical health support service materials mimic the format of

erotic party announcements and the resources tend to be co-mingled on one

table for audiences to take with them before they leave. Often, a space is

cleared by the door for flyers and club cards as guests left the event so they

4 Promoter for Soft N Wet Afternoons at Wet. 130

could pick up information on their way out. It can be anything from the ticket-window shelf at the entrance or a separate table set up specifically to distribute piles of clubcards5 and leaflets advertising upcoming events and local health resources. Departing guests would often start at the top of the table and pick up one of everything in an effort to be fully informed about upcoming events, gathering support information alongside event announcements. Sometimes, organization volunteers would distribute cards and giveaway items personally (such as keychains, magnets, safer sex kits and stickers) to the audience or hand them out at the exit as we left. With such little distance between medical health support services and erotic party announcements on the table, the boundaries between them blur. Being erotically engaged and connected with one's community becomes as critical and integral to one's overall health as an HIV test or blood pressure screening.

Some of the organizations are aware that erotic imagery can help encourage healthy behavior and not just for safer sex practices, but for other health issues like helping lesbians stop smoking. The Women's Health

Initiative finds that "approximately twice as many lesbians are heavy smokers compared to heterosexual women. Almost half of heterosexual women report never smoking, compared to one-third of lesbians (6.8% oflifetime lesbians

5 "Clubcards" are postcard sized flyers, often full color and glossy with graphics, large fonts and photos of black women (sometimes the featured dancers) in suggestive poses, often wearing thongs and placing their buttocks in full and prominent view. Rarely does the word "lesbian" appear on clubcards; more likely are cues such as "women's parties," "girls night out," "for the ladies only," "dom party," "for the femmes," alongside photos of two black women embracing or gazing into the camera together. On occasion, clubcards include a rainbow design or logo (most often, the promoter's organization). 131

and 7.4% of mature lesbians versus 3.5% of heterosexual women)" (Lesbian

Health Fact Sheet, November 2, 2000). Smoking has been found to increase women's risk for lung and cervical cancer, as well as cardiovascular disease.

The Mautner Project's campaign to decrease smoking among lesbians,

"Put Your Lips to Better Use," used "a sexy image, a positive replacement, for

[smoking]." However, prior to working with focus groups, the focus was quite different. "'We kind of went in thinking that we would show pictures of lesbians with their puppies and lesbians walking on the beach, but [the women in the focus groups] were real clear, so that's what we went with,' explains

Cheryl Fields, the Mautner Project's deputy director" (Lunglhofer 2004: 1).

The resulting campaign uses close-up block images of women's mouths and tongues (some are wearing lipgloss, some have pierced tongues, some are licking their lips.) The mouths and tongues images are right next to images of a variety of women's crotches, wearing lacy underwear or in the act of removing their pants, suggesting that kissing (but also, cunnilingus) is improved and more enjoyable for your girlfriend when you quit smoking.

Like the atmosphere at Black same-sex desiring women's erotic events, the

Mautner focus group women did not want sexuality downplayed for these materials, but rather, for it to be front and center, very clear and without apology.

Harris' inclusion of the Mautner Project isn't just a way to help reach a underserved population in terms of public health need; it is also a strategic way to deflect criticism that her wildly successful events (consistently large 132

crowds at events which are able to recur for years) are not borne of material motivation but of putting "community first." There is heated debate about how the events should function in terms of their emphasis on health, politics, activism and how events should benefit Black same-sex desiring communities generally. A well-known D.C. Black lesbian activist, often referred to as the

"queen mother" of the community, Carlene Cheatam, terms the combination of social events with consciousness-raising, "partying with a purpose."

Cheatam said of the annual D.C. Black Pride events, of which erotic performance parties featuring dancers are abundant on the schedule, "There is no place in that scenario where they are asking for money to be raised for

AIDS organizations supporting the black community and I think that's a horrible mistake ... D.C. Black Pride has gotten away from the main reason that it came into being, which was to raise money for AIDS service organizations and it has become a much more social experience without making it a party with a purpose" says Cheatam (Volin 2006, emphasis mine).

To further illustrate this point, Ron Simmons, executive director of Us

Helping Us, a Black gay AIDS service organization, is quoted in the same article as Carlene Cheatam when she criticizes Black Pride parties for getting away from "partying with a purpose." Simmons is also aware of the struggle over what the parties should "do," but, despite his being in charge of an organization who would stand to benefit from such fundraising, still defends parties that are "merely social" for their value in offering a space that is often scarce in Washington D.C. In the article, he says, "It's not about raising 133

money for AIDS organizations anymore and I'm not saying that's good or bad because despite HIV, it serves an important role for the community .... There's nothing more empowering than coming to a public event and seeing your community there, proud of who they are, out in the sunshine having fun ... " but then adds, "We'll be trying to get back to the old days," when the parties benefited AIDS service organizations (Volin: 2006: 1).

Clearly, the issue of whether it's acceptable to host parties "for partying sake" remains unresolved in Black same-sex desiring communities in

Washington D.C. and space where one may experience open, affirmed sexual

expression with an accepting group of peers may not stand as a compelling

enough reason or valuable enough end for visible Black same-sex desiring

community leaders. When Black Pride receives coverage about its events in the public sphere (Washington Blade), the image of the events and their

emphasis on sexual expression or performance teeters on the edge of liability

and hearkens back to pressures on Black women to downplay sexuality to

protect themselves- and the images of their Black sisters. If the events are not

for personal profit or "indulging" in "deviant" sexual desires but for

community betterment and "uplift," the events become more palatable and

defensible culturally- not just to white gay readers of the Blade article but to

other Blacks, same-sex desiring and otherwise.

Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance parties must

negotiate the needs of their audiences, promoters and performers as well as

how events are presented in the public sphere- even when that public sphere is 134

D.C. based and gay-affirmative, in the case of coverage in Metro Weekly or the Washington Blade. Event promoters must contend with how they will be interpreted and understood- am I benefiting "too much" from my efforts and not "uplifting the community" with my success? Can I make money, be fiscally successful and still win the respect of my peers, audience members and other promoters? It is unclear what combination of an atinosphere of acceptance, a "nice, classy place," affordability, accessibility and protection from interference is the "magic formula" for a successful event but being . perceived as "out for oneself' (moneymaking) is enough of a stigma to seriously damage an event and possibly end it altogether.

Creating and coordinating Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance events is a risky endeavor, rife with pitfalls and competition inside as well as the ever-present risk of harassment, judgment and violence entering the event from the outside. Performers face negativity associated with working in the sex industry as erotic performers for women, in addition to stigma in being Black women who are not upholding the chaste, moral image demanded of them by idealized images of proper, heterosexual Black womanhood. Audience members find expression of their same-sex desire in a space where, just beyond the door of the venue, lies a world that expects

Black women to mute their sexual desire and only express affinity for males as their chosen sexual partner.

Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance events face dramatic societal pressures (internally and externally) from multiple directions 135

and yet, continue to exist, negotiate these pressures and are successful in meeting most of these needs most of the time. Chapter Five delves into what happens inside the space when the space is able to successfully balance the needs of individuals and for the group-how do events realize and sustain the utopian vision of a world where Black women are valued, are central, their bodies worshipped as beautiful and their sexuality accepted as powerful and positive? CHAPTERS

CREATING BLACK EROTIC UTOPIA IN THE FLESH: ACCEPTANCE, PERMISSION AND STATUS

The goal of this chapter is to unpack the utopian vision of erotic parties that makes it comfortable for Black women to speak and act-with particular regard to ecstatic sexual agency, speech and behavior. In other words, how are Black women's same-sex desires and experiences elicited through the imagined and realized environment of the "Black women's erotic utopia," where racism, sexism and homophobia have no place and egalitarian acceptance and desire is central? By cultivating a space ofresistance, where

Black women are central, where sexual openness between them is normalized and these elements help to grant permission to participate and form group connections, rather than foster divisions rooted in judgment over "looking bad" for being a Black woman expressing sexual enthusiasm in front of others.

However, even as the erotic party seeks to equalize all Black women in their opportunity for sexual expression and create a utopic world where

Black women are in complete control and at the center of all the action, the events are also an arena for accumulating (and displaying) individual status.

136 137

Once the foundation of acceptance is firmly established and audience members develop confidence in the space, they are free to push the boundaries a bit, seeking out their own ways of being and experiencing the space. The chance to show off (and teach) the cultural currency of the erotic parties: being entitled to special treatment on their birthdays, a display ofwell­ developed dancing skill, talking back to the trickster emcee who's trying to pick on them, claiming special knowledge about and connections with the dancers (especially knowing if they're "really" gay), pulling off a unique flair when tipping the dancers-these are just a few of the ways that Black women participate in the party space and establish themselves as "regulars," which can command identification as a "VIP," as "big tippers," or have access to other forms of special treatment at the parties. Rather than a paradox, this combination of a Black women's space of utopian sexual freedom and of individual status seeking at the parties contributes to the overall sense of familiarity and a sense of unconditional acceptance found at Black same-sex desiring women's erotic parties.

Dissemblance as Protection

A thick cloak of expectations and silence around Black women's bodies and sexualities has many names and descriptions. It is what Darlene

Clark Hine calls "dissemblance," a survival mechanism to protect Black women's inner lives from sexual, emotional and psychological violation. It is the "Black (w)hole theory of sexuality" described by Evelynn Hammonds, the 138

silence around Black female sexuality-the silence that earns Black women honor and respectability from Black communities. It is pressure to be honorable and diminish one's sexual being is attached to meanings around what it means to be a "good" Black woman, a silencing of the self in exchange for approval and at times, one's own survival. This heavy protection, on which one's own being and survival feels predicated, no matter its name or theoretical origin, it is a carefully crafted mantel that is not easily shed.

To protect themselves from rape and brutalization, Darlene Clark Hine names the survival strategy of silence and invisibility, "dissemblance." As she explores the reasons why Black women left the post-slavery South to seek a life in the North, she observes, "the most common and certainly the most compelling, motive for running, fleeing, migrating was a desire to retain or claim some control and ownership of their own sexual beings" (Hine 1989:

914). She asserts that Black women were not simply "southern leaves blown

North by the winds of destitution" (Levine 1977: 275) but that many acted on their own behalf for self-preservation. Part of this self-preservation, she adds, was the development of

a cult of secrecy, a culture of dissemblance, to protect the sanctity of inner aspects of their lives. The dynamics of dissemblance involved creating the appearance of disclosure, or openness about themselves and their feelings, while actually remaining an enigma. Only with secrecy, thus achieving a self-imposed invisibility, could ordinary Black women accrue the psychic space and harness the resources needed to hold their own in the often one-sided and mismatched struggle. (Hine 1989: 915) 139

In other words, Black women crafted a strategy of sexual invisibility and muted their sexual lives in order to resist stereotypes of the wild, ever-willing jezebel that justified rape and brutalization. Hine emphasizes that Black women did not possess the power to eradicate negative social and sexual images of their womanhood" but that "it was imperative that they collectively create alternative self-images and shield from scrutiny these private, empowering definitions of self' (Hine 1989: 916). Essentially, Hine argues that Black women had to develop a positive sexual self on their own, apart from and out of the public view before any widespread correction of stereotypes could be possible.

Black Women's Erotic Utopian Worldmaking

Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance events represent an imagined, utopian environment where Black same-sex desire between women is visible, honored, celebrated and expressed explicitly through the body. This is in direct contrast to the expectations enforced on Black women from dominant societal codes as well as cultural norms within Black communities: same-sex desire should be invisible, kept to oneself, destroyed at all costs and never manifested through actual sexual contact with a member of the same sex. Gayle Rubin (1994) famously wrote about the supposed

"slippery slope" of sexuality held by W estem culture, that once a societal boundary is crossed in terms of sexuality, one can't ever "recover" from it, one's appetite will become uncontrollable ands/he will be consumed into a 140

"slippery slope" of debauchery and indulgence in immoral sexual behaviors.

This is not unlike the construction of Black women's bodies and sexualities during slavery, as craving sex constantly and being inherently deviant in terms of behavior. Thus, it is no surprise that a utopian vision of Black erotic worldmaking allows such expression with the threat of dire consequences­ whether real or imagined-seemingly removed.

"Seemingly" because the dangers and threats outside of the utopian space still exist and can infringe on the space. It is appropriated space and public and therefore still subject to invasion and disruption. However, the placement of Blackness, femaleness, same-sex desire all at the center of the event points to how much these attributes are devalued and marginalized just about everywhere else outside that space. Richard Dyer (1992) identifies the ways in which entertainment supplies relief from societal pressures. Instead of exhaustion, the erotic event offers energy and life. Instead of predictability or dreariness, it offers new excitements. Instead of advertising and attempts to exploit for resources, it offers honesty and truth to oneself and to one another­ and replaces fragmentation, one of the issues Habermas (1989) identifies as a reason why the idealized public sphere did not successfully translate into real experiential life. Perhaps this is why the events have such a focus on community and togetherness as Black same-sex desiring women-because such an experience could not be found anywhere else, even in Black-centric spaces or queer spaces where same-sex desire is welcomed. Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance events offer a unique shelter from the 141

hardships of Black same-sex desiring life and are manifestations of a utopian

vision where the threat of sexism, racism and homophobia-as well as shame,

guilt, violence and pain-are simply non-existent. The events are based on

this utopian vision and, to be sure, all of the above still exist. The practices

which help support a utopian vision of safety, acceptance and affirmation for

all Black same-sex desiring women (even if such a vision cannot truly be realized in actuality) are the subject of investigation in this chapter.

Group Dance, Stepping and Bonding

Engaging in collective dance is well-known ritual for bringing people together and the erotic parties are no different in this respect. The moments before a show begins are for reconnecting with friends, meeting new ones and the pleasures of watching the club transform into a crowded, lively haven.

Women greet one another and scan the room for friends (and new faces) as they choose their vantage point of the performance area. Drinks flow, conversation builds, laughter punctuates the air. As the start time approaches, the club fills with more and more women, the DJ turns up the volume on the throbbing pre-show music and the first few ladies emerge on the dance floor to dance together.

Pre-show audience dancing is an important part of the Black women's party tradition in Washington. As the space fills with audience members, a few ladies will otten take advantage of the clear dance area, usually a hardwood floor section, distinguishing it as an area for dancing. Some who 142

get up to dance are often couples, some are groups of three who arrived together and occasionally, there is the lone woman, getting down to her favorite song, as her friends sitting at a table or by the bar look on. The dance floor is only the usual focal point for pre-show audience dancing. Many ladies can be seen wiggling and shaking among the crowd, groovin' while they stand at the bar waiting on a drink or swaying in their seat at her table of friends.

The music selected (and the DJ hired) for play at Black women's parties reflects the women in the space. Audiences range from as young as 18

(some parties allow under-21 attendance while monitoring alcohol sales) to the oldest woman I've met at a party, 81 years old. While there is generational mixing at parties, there are ways that the parties distinguish themselves in terms of the age of attendees. The music sets the tone for the event, the dancing and the performances in the show. Depending on whether the party crowd is the "young'uns" (20s and early 30s) or the "grown and sexy" ladies (40s and up), the music may be a combination ofR&B, Motown, rap, hip-hop, go-go, soul and funk.

A Black tradition known as group stepping is a form of group dance where individuals (literally) mirror the coordinated steps of the group, dancing side by side cohesively. At the erotic parties, group stepping takes place either before or after the performers come on for the show. Historically, group dancing serves to reunite people after a separation, a way to establish group cohesion and identity. The more experienced step dancers almost 143

always start the group dance and less experienced (or newer) step dancers join

in as the dance gets underway. Group stepping is designed to be collaborative

and, although one often possesses some level of skill and experience before

entering the dance floor (and status is conferred when one displays a high

level of skill and experience), no one will be turned away or made an example

for her awkwardness or lack of practice. Another more experienced group

member will always assist because the object of the dance is to unite and

welcome, no matter how unfamiliar or unpracticed the new group member

may be. One's willingness to dance allows her to participate, be part of the

group at a basic level, while her skill level demonstrates whether she has had

the opportunity to step at events where these dances take place. Continued

practice and performance allows one to move from mere participation to

exceptional dance skill, along with the claims to status that comes with that.

I witnessed group step helping many times at the Black same-sex

desiring women's erotic parties. A new stepper would approach someone in

the dancing group and ask to learn to steps. The new stepper would stand near

the edge of the group, on the periphery, until she got the hang ofit. New

steppers in the main group would watch their feet alongside others in the

group to ensure they were doing the steps correctly and hesitate from time to

time or have to pause to rejoin the group after losing the pattern. The more

experienced group steppers could add to their performances and focus less on their steps, visibly relaxed as they clapped, looked around, smiled, sang along with the song or even held conversations with a fellow stepper. Experienced 144

steppers could also add other tasks to their performance such as helping the newcomers by holding hands with them, calling out the steps as the new stepper got the hang of it and often providing encouragement when the new stepper was successful (nodding, verbal approval such as "looks good,"

"yeah!," etc.)

Although smaller details of the individual steps can be improvised and vary from region to region, many of the core, basic step sequences are the same. For instance, "grapevine" steps (moving sideways, crossing one's feet over one another to step to the left or to the right) can include claps, touching the ground when one reaches the furthest left or right step or shoulder shimmies to accentuate the chest as the body "grapevines" left to right. As long as your style moves with the group generally and doesn't disrupt the group's cohesive performance, a stepper is free to add her own finer, personalized details, as she becomes more experienced-- keeping in step with the group while asserting individual style at the same time.

There is good reason for group stepping to take place at Black women's same-sex desiring erotic parties. Historically, group stepping is an expression of collective identity, belonging but also of difference and political resistance. "Despite its function as a ritual, many steppers believe that the stepping tradition is directly linked to their African heritage ... as a way to express their African identity" (Fine 2003: 74). Many elements of group stepping are directly descended from slave dances: 145

The syncopated, percussive hand-slapping and foot-stomping movements in stepping reveal their descent from early African American dances such as patting juba and ring shouts. The outlawing of drums among slaves may have heightened the development of percussive slapping and stomping as substitutes for drumbeats. (Fine 2003: 92)

Group stepping helps mark the transition from the outside world into the welcoming, affirming party atmosphere at the parties. It allows Black women to perform as a group and experience themselves as part of a moving entity, literally moving as one, surrounded by a common movement, a common knowledge and practice which finds its source in dances rooted in shared history and meaning. Coming together for a group practice designed to promote survival of Black people and Black identity reinforces an enduring connection to heritage in Africa and a history in slavery, within which so many meanings around Blackness emerged in the United States. Since group stepping is so often performed at other important Black life rituals (weddings, funerals, sorority rushes, etc.), group stepping helps Black women further develop a party space where an atmosphere of acceptance and the centrality of

Blackness are so crucial to the proceedings.

Emcee as Erotic Party Voice

As the house lights dim, the volume comes down, group dancing winds to an end and the microphone comes on. The show is about to begin.

The voice of the evening floats through the speakers, welcomes you and asks,

"How are we all feelin' tonight?" The "verbal artist ... the voice of authority 146

who represents the wishes of the sponsors and an entertainer in his own right"

(Gelo 1999: 40-41), the word "emcee" comes from the abbreviation "MC," or

"master of ceremonies." No matter the setting or event, emcees perform similar roles: as guide for the audience, director for the performances and model for the audience when expressing appreciation for the performers.

The emcee is central, visible, highly influential and especially audible at events, familiar with all the rituals as well as how to integrate new participants into the festivities, encouraging participation and adding information and commentary as the event unfolds. "The emcee exhorts the participants to reverence or abandon as the hour requires, explains the history and meaning of customs, recognizes people in the dance circle and crowd, and fills time withjokes and commentary" (1999: 42). The emcee's role is

"fundamental to the success" of an event, coordinating all elements and helping it to run smoothly. By virtue of the highly visible and audible role,

"emcees are critically evaluated ... through word of mouth, and the best ones are in continuous demand" (1999: 42).

To begin the show, emcees are quite often the first performers of the evening and the erotic parties are no different in this regard. Since emcees serve as the "guide" through the upcoming performances and to elicit audience involvement (especially tipping), their routine kicks off the evening and sets the tone. Emcee performances are usually "over the top," high­ energy and very focused on the audience, inspiring the first tips of the evening, giving hugs to known audience members as she lip-synchs (or, in one 147

particular case, she will sing on the microphone) the song she selected for her performance. As she performs, she gauges the temperature in the room and reaches out to touch audience members on the shoulder as she whirls around the room, serenading individual audience members who break into a shy smile and place a tip in her hand.

Emcees are also charged with the task of making announcements, often between performances as music is changed out and performers put the final touches before their cue. Emcees encourage attendance at certain other upcoming events. These event recommendations are cleared with the promoter first, but the announced events are often ones taking place later at that same venue (such as a drag show), other erotic parties hosted elsewhere by the promoter's friends or events being held by people in attendance at the event that evening. If the promoters of the recommended events are present at the event that evening, the emcee will invite them to make a short announcement about their event and then the emcee will follow up with,

"Some come on out and show them some love- you know, we all just want to have fun, so come out and support your sisters who are doing all these wonderful events for you," emphasizing the commonalities and positive intentions behind the events. The announced events become "approved" events, recommended by the promoter and the emcee, both prominent figures in the erotic party scene. Their approval is valuable and parties can be highly profitable, so if the hosting promoter has allowed other events to be announced, she is visibly and audibly willing to share her audience with other 148

events, demonstrating her approval of those events (and promoters) since she is granting permission for them to advertise. Similarly, as the erotic party atmosphere is one of cooperation and acceptance, a "good" audience member is expected to attend and support events beyond the one she's at and doesn't withhold or limit her presence (or her spending) only to a few.

The importance of the emcee role at the erotic parties cannot be overstated. Emcees are advertised right alongside headlining performers as the "mouth piece" of the event, fulfilling a role that is reserved for a few well­ known community players because the skill and talent of the emcee can make or break an event. Often positioned on the stage between performances, the emcee has the best "seat" in the house and wields a considerable amount of power: she is standing, she holds the mic (and controls whose voice is heard besides her own) and she moves easily through the space. She opens the event, introduces the acts, makes announcements, introduces key figures in the audience to the larger group, coordinates with the promoters, signals to the dj if any music adjustments need to be made. Most notably, the emcee talks.

She controls the meanings and responses to performers and regulates behavior in the space with her gaze and running commentary.

Emcees are well-known, dynamic, charismatic and popular members of the Black same-sex desiring women's community. Just like the other performers, emcees have a fan base and develop a following, a core group of women who wiil go to events based on who is emceeing. The emcee communicates directly with the audience through her handheld microphone 149

and her voice is omnipresent, always filling in the moments between songs and performers-and providing commentary during performances as well. A staple of the emcee routine is comedy, a crucial element that a skilled emcee can use to reduce tension in the room or draw attention to someone without putting them on the spot. Most notably, emcee humor can communicate criticism without disrupting the atmosphere of acceptance that is so central to the parties.

In addition to all of the general "ringmaster" and "director" activities of a typical emcee, at the Black same-sex desiring women's erotic parties, audiences bring with them that mantle of what Black female "respectability" is (and how they should manifest it) as well as the search for their experience to be mirrored back at them. Thus, the emcee is charged with managing the meanings in the event space to make it possible for participants to reach

"reverence or abandon" as the event gets underway. The emcee must be the most verbally sexually expressive person in the room, to serve as the model for audience members and setting the tone for audience response.

Emcees at Black same-sex desiring women's parties gauge and continually pump up the energy in the room. One emcee, known as "Big

Sexxy," is famous for her "dirty" verbal talk, alternating between speaking to the dancer during her performance, addressing the audience and expressing her own delight for all to hear. She will comment openly to the dancer about the dancer's moves, performance or her body, expressing a positive evaluation or the dancer's intoxicating effect on her, such as, "Oh Laaaord, you've got 150

me all wet up in here now! You betta watch out or I'ma come get you!" To

engage the crowd in a "conversation" about the performance while it's going

on, she will pick someone out of the audience and say to them (on the mic ),

"Did you see that? She better be careful or she's gonna break somethin'!"

Other times, Big Sexxy will simply begin singing the lyrics to the song the dancer chose, using the sensual words to serenade her love for the dancer, punctuating the music with cries of passion, "ooohs" and "yeahs" and "uh­ huhs."

A great deal of the emcee's role is to control the energy in the room by increasing the sexual openness, mirroring same-sex passion for the audience to reflect back at her. However, she must also address other forms of event behavior such as members who may appear "too rowdy'' by speaking on the mic to them directly in order to contain them. This is always done in a playful manner to ensure that the control is not interpreted as a limit or chastisement, since the aim of the party is to allow and encourage sexual expression and enthusiasm for Black women. Shiqueeta is particularly skilled at this deft maneuver.

Shiqueeta Lee is among the best known emcees in the D.C. area. She puts on shows in her own right, including a monthly Drag Brunch, fashion shows, Black Pride performance events and theatrical plays. Shiqueeta also sings, dances and creates her own costumes and she is known for her drag descendants whom she teaches and coaches to become drag performers and offers her events as their platform for their performance careers. She is a 151

highly sought after emcee and performer in Washington DC, often emceeing

at Cada Vez, Wet, Bachelor's Mill, Aqua and many other venues where

LGBTQ Black social and fundraising events take place. Shiqueeta's emcee

techniques at the parties are famous for their focus around expressions of

desire and appreciation for women's bodies.

One evening, at the Cada Vez, Shiqueeta had just performed her

opening number and she was now warming up the audience for the next

performer. A woman was sitting with her group of friends in the front section

because it was her birthday. As Shiqueeta was introducing the festivities and

gauging the temperature of the audience before the next performer was set to

come out, the birthday girl got a little rambunctious and started talking back to

Shiqueeta. She was asking where the dancers were and she wanted "to see

some pussy." Shiqueeta stops her introductions, turns her attention to her,

asks her to kindly allow her to finish so that the show can begin and punctuates her warning with, "'Cause you forget, this wig come off and I will

eat you like she will!" referring to the woman next to her, implying she was her girlfriend. The entire room roars with laughter, including the birthday girl

and her implied girlfriend, who is high-fiving her friends and doubled over with laughter at Shiqueeta's response.

Shiqueeta's wig can "come off' because when Shiqueeta is not

Shiqueeta, Shiqueeta is Jerry VanHook, a Black gay man, actor, singer, dancer and fashion designer. Shiqueeta is a drag queen and biologically male-she's a special person and a major player at the erotic parties, but her mere presence 152

here is quite remarkable. Given how crucial it is for the space to be safe-and the emphasis on "women only" at the events-how could a biological male be allowed in the space, let alone come to be known as the most popular emcee at

Black same-sex desiring women's erotic parties?

Shiqueeta's acceptance in the space is, in part, the result of her physical feminization through sequined dresses (along with added padding to simulate breasts and hips), dramatic wigs, platform shoes and make-up, carefully applied to create the appearance of high cheekbones and pouty lips.

While she is the picture of femininity in the space acting as an emcee, "the

"femininity" attributed to gay men is not stigmatized and ashamed, but in control and assertive, retaliating against a hegemonic straight world" (McNeil

1999: 346-347). Because femininity is stigmatized in sexist culture,

Gay men have responded to this situation not only by poking fun at the world, but also by poking fun at themselves and at women who occupy a similar, though not equivalent, psychocultural position in relation to men concerning matters of desire. Humor is cathartic, so paying attention to what people laugh at- to the premises that make jokes funny- tells us something about their concerns, conflicts, anxieties, and ambivalences. (1999: 347)

By performing the discourse of desire for women as part of her character ("I will eat you like she will!") as a joke, she is highlighting her stigma as a gay man (who would not "eat" her, in a hegemonic hetero-male sense) but she frames it as lesbian desire since she is performing as a "woman." At Black same-sex desiring women's erotic parties, being a Black "lesbian" is a valued and honored and so her "threat" actually fits into the atmosphere of sexual 153

permissiveness between women, while still exerting control over managing

the event.

Another way that Shiqueeta solidifies her power as an emcee and her

enduring role in the space is by turning her well-known attention to the

occasional Black male in the Black same-sex desiring erotic party space.

Black men do sometimes attend the parties; their "ticket to get in" is to

support a friend who is performing, to support the promoter whom he may be

close with or family. The Black male subject in the space must be accounted

for and explained because of the nature of the events. If a male person is

present without an explanation of his purpose or intention, it is likely that a negative one will be assigned to him by Black female attendees. This leaves the interpretation open for negative assessments: he's here to crash our party, he's here because he wants to look at our dancers, he's here to harass us, he is here to try to hit on us. By addressing her attention to him, Shiqueeta offers

"citizenship tests" for the Black men who occasionally attend, allowing her to defuse potential conflict, misinterpretation, confrontation. The emcee will often use these "citizenship tests" as an opportunity to align the motivations for attendance with those of the female audience members: to support the party, support a performer with whom he is close or support his friends who are audience members or promoters.

On the other hand, Shiqueeta's attentions also help to communicate the values of the event to him. Just as important as explaining his presence,

Shiqueeta's attention tells the him: you are a guest here and you will behave 154

as such. Because the audience can only hear Shiqueeta's words on the mic,

only one side of the conversation is heard and the visiting male outsider's

responses are not. The audience may fill in the other side of the conversation

based on what the emcee says- and no matter what the visiting male may

actually be saying. Often, the inferred meanings of Shiqueeta' s words are that

the visiting male is gay. Unless he is identified through Shiqueeta' s

announcements as a cousin, promoter's friend, DJ, photographer, or otherwise

as club staff, the inevitable default setting is that he is gay. Shiqueeta's

method for establishing the sexual identity of unknown Black males runs

along these lines:

And how are you this evening? ... Thanks for coming to visit us here at the Cada Vez. Are you enjoying yourself? Well, it is good to see you, sweetheart ... (after some pause and Black male visitor replies) Oh, OK, I see. You're one of those DL Brothers .... (Black male visitor laughs and attempts to inaudibly correct Shiqueeta) No, no, honey, that's fiiine. Just meet me in the men's room, it's the second stall on the left. I'll be waiting for you after the show (Black male visitor and friends all laugh, clap hands).

As McNeil notes, part of the comedic banter to be expected from drag

emcees and their audiences is that "with the spotlight glaring directly at them, the emcee- along with the audience- determines whether they 'like dick or

pussy.' Thus in the theatrical drag arena there is a heavy emphasis not only on

determining sexual orientation, but also upon the explicit surveillance of

sexual orientation under an inverted moral order of sexuality" (1999: 357). A straight man in a strip club is of no great consequence; this is "to be expected." Therefore, the male in the women-performing-erotically space 155

becomes an anomaly at the erotic parties, normalizing the women and their

gaze. Shiqueeta reads the Black male visitors as gay but it is important to note

that whether a Black male in the space actually identifies as gay himself is

irrelevant. It is the questioning of him ("What are you doing here?") that

normalizes Black women's dominant presence in the space and positions him

as necessarily benign, as supportive of his female friends, as no threat to

dancers or the room full of Black female audience members that is being

established here. This technique provides a role for him in the space that

allows him to fit into and stay in the space as well as not to interfere with the

purpose of the space. Like Shiqueeta, the Black men become objects of

humor, vehicles of entertainment alongside the performers and their power is

diffused without hostility or confrontation. If the Black man is not gay, he

understands that he is expected to behave as though he is, whether through

direct performative actions that can be read as gay (like blowing kisses to a

drag queen or other men at the event, for instance) and by avoiding

approaching women in the space in a manner that could be read as heterosexist or predatory. This prevents disruption of the Black women's

queer utopia, marking the emcee as the defender, the overseer and steward of the space for the time Black women appropriate it for the event.

There is good reason for Shiqueeta's strategic attentions to Black men

at the erotic parties. Nearly every woman I interviewed for this project had a story about a man approaching them at traditional strip clubs, harassing them or otherwise making them uncomfortable. In Chapter Two, I discussed a few 156

of these negative experiences which gave rise to erotic parties designed and

offered exclusively for women (especially Black women). In addition to

stories about traditional strip clubs, a few also mentioned occasional run-ins

with men at lesbian or gay bars (or just outside of the clubs) where erotic

dance performances were taking place.

Before delving into their stories about these negative interactions with

hetero men in these spaces, it is important to understand what hetero men are

seeking when they visit strip clubs to gain insight into why their expectations

could be conflictual with Black women's same-sex desiring erotic parties. I

briefly tum again to Katherine Frank's 2003 ethnography of traditional strip

clubs, G-Strings and Sympathy. Frank finds that hetero men seek acceptance

in traditional strip clubs, knowing that attentions and affections will be

squarely directed at them. Men can go to strip clubs to interact with nude (or

semi-nude) young women without fear ofrejection and simultaneously escape

from the stressors of their work or personal lives. Frank frames the strip club

as a "gendered combination ofleisure, entertainment, and service" (2003: 88)

and, contrary to common perceptions that men are seeking sexual release at

strip clubs, she found that men reported "relaxation" and "escape" as the most

common themes in their desire to visit strip clubs.

One male customer in Frank's ethnography (named Tim) stated, "I go there to relax and have a good time, get my mind off of work. It does all those things" (2003: 87). Men in traditional strip clubs also seek "authentic" connections with dancers by getting to know the "real" person, sharing a 157

special relationship which makes them feel they enjoy a unique status among the other male audience members. When men visit a strip club, they know they can interact with a friendly, young woman who will listen, smile and comply with their wishes. Unlike interactions in a singles bar or nightclub, the rules are made clear, men can get their needs for acceptance and the pleasures of a "rejection-free zone" when they interact with the women in the space.

However, when I read some quotes to Black women in interviews about men and strip clubs, suggesting that men say they are there "to relax," they were incredulous. Angel Tavares said, "They're lying .. .I don't think it's any different. We go there to look at ass." Black same-sex desiring women were often suspicious of men's motivations in strip clubs, particularly when men occasionally showed up at their erotic parties. When Diana and I were at

Soft N Wet, she spotted a small band of three Black males sitting at a table in the club, tipping the dancers and she asked, "What are they after? What are they looking for? Why are they in here?" Riley Parker explained that male presence may have led up to a legendary fight at Between Friends in DC, credited for shutting the lesbian nightclub down:

I used to go to Between Friends a lot because I like to play pool. That's my thing. I wasn't there the night of the incident. What had happened was, they started letting anybody in. Nobody wasn't really-­ they really didn't check you. They started letting people in ... and a lot of people hate the gay community. Now, imagine men who think they can change lesbians, change our minds. I don't know if they saw dollar signs, or what, but it got to a point where straight men were pushing up on people's girlfriends. And pushing up on gay men ... like they were gonna change somebody's life. I'm sure somebody crossed somebody's line. (Riley Parker, interview with author, September 18, 2005) 158

The bottom line is, ifhetero males are seeking relaxation, acceptance and freedom from the possibility ofrejection in their own strip clubs, they are perceived as looking for trouble when they enter same-sex desiring parties or spaces marked as "lesbian," putting the women and the space at risk.

Oohzee discusses the similar conflict she's had with some straight men when she performs at traditional women-performing-for-men erotic events, particularly tension around her no-nudity policy and her unwillingness to meet straight male expectations in a Black female performer, touching on perceptions of Black female sexuality as available along with expectations of deference and cooperation. She is critical of straight men who attribute her no-nudity policy as a condition of how she identifies sexually (which, notably, she still does not reveal explicitly):

My sexuality, you know, a lot of times comes up .....A lot of times ... people they look at it like, "She's not doin' this because her lifestyle is blahblahblah," as opposed to "She doesn't want to do that because her morals or her values or blahblahblah." They [men] think because you're a dancer that automatically you're just open, down for whatever. (A Taste of Oohzee: 2007)

Here, Oohzee touches on the perception of Black women as constantly sexually available, especially to men. Although Oohzee is known for her erotic dancing and using her body in ways that resemble stripper acrobatics, she does not "strip" in the traditional sense ofremoving her clothing, although her outfits are sometimes skintight and revealing. Oohzee is well-known enough that she does not make nudity part of her performances, a decision that intrigues and further attracts her female fans to her. 159

Audience Claims to Authentic Knowledge

Just as Oohzee's clothing induces fantasy, so too does ambiguity about

a dancer's sexual proclivities heighten the excitement of audience interactions

with dancers at Black same-sex desiring women's erotic parties. While many

audience members and dancers I spoke with seemed to be absolutely positive

that Oohzee is a lesbian (and audience members enjoy telling and comparing

stories about how they "know" Oohzee is a lesbian), Oohzee has never publicly declared her sexual identity in an interview, etc. (that I-or anyone

else-- could locate). However, in the documentary film released about her in

2006, some of her statements lead one to believe that Oohzee is same-sex

desiring. In fact, even as she calls her performance of desiring her female

audience members "an act" so that she is not accused of authentic desire for a particular woman during her act (i.e. trying to actually steal someone's

girlfriend), she ends with an ambiguous statement about whom she has "at home" as a clue about her real life off stage:

If it's a couple ... I just want the girls in the couple to know, it's not serious, it's just an act. I don't want your woman. Pleeease! That's what I should have said earlier. That's a big misconception that when I'm doing something they think that it's something serious and I've been lookin' at her all night and I could ... no! I like what I look at, at home, and I'm real cool with that. (A Taste of Oohzee: 2007)

In the bonus section of the documentary, Oohzee gives us another glimpse into the possibilities of her off stage experience of desire. In her hotel room with friends and fellow performers, preparing for a performance in the city, showing the camera crew her costumes, Oohzee holds up a pair of boots, 160

some spandex pants and other articles- all of which are pink in color. She notices the theme and concludes out loud, "I like pink," which is met with snickering and knowing smiles from others in the hotel room, including the camera crew. Her declaration that she "likes pink" and the sexual implications of her statement combine to create a rather funny moment in the film. One notes that Oohzee does not rush to deny or dispute the conclusion drawn from what appears to be an accidental confession.

Reading Authentic Desire in Dancer Performance

At Soft N Wet, I saw the other side of the deciphering process of the audience-dancer interaction when it comes to authentic interaction when I sat next to and struck up an evening-long conversation with a Black lesbian from

Florida named Diana Maxwell (pseudonym) who is a regular in DC for the erotic parties. This was in late August of 2006 and Diana was in DC to socialize but also had evacuated her home in anticipation of Hurricane

Katrina's coming devastation. Her neighbors had stayed behind and were watching her home while she was away, keeping her informed on what was happening. She planned to return a few days later. Diana told me she visited

DC regularly, was friends with most of the staff for the Soft N Wet events.

She had seen many of the Soft N Wet dancers before and, as the dancers performed on the bar surface around the space, she started at the far end of the bar and declared to me what she knew about each dancer's relationship status or sexual identity. Diana displayed her knowledge and experience with events 161

as she pointed at dancers, one by one: "She's gay, she's gay, she's bisexual. .. gay, straight, straight. I think she's bi. She's straight- she's got a boyfriend, actually. Gay, gay, everyone knows she is gay ... "

Whether or not Diana was correct in identifying dancers' personal sexual identities was not as notable as that she felt such information was valuable and displayed it as proof of her ability to gather "inside" information about performers, beyond the "act" that dancers perform and "ordinary" customers consume. Audience members at the erotic events indulged in such talk and would tell tales of running into dancers outside of the club or having contact with them which led them to believe the dancer was same-sex identified and, often, behavior that pointed to the possibility of mutual attraction between them. Such storytelling added to a dancer's mystique, enhanced the teller's status and reinforced the space as a safe arena to speak openly about experiencing desire and being the object of desire among Black women.

To read her performance as authentic and based in real desire is a compliment when considering the value in Black communities placed on being "real," not passing, showing one's true self. To decipher the audience­ dancer interaction in terms of dancer desire and to then exchange stories among one another, speculating about dancer desire is also a way to integrate their identities together- as Black, as women, as same-sex desiring- a move to reconcile the "loyalty divide," (Are you Black or a woman first? Is your primary allegiance to the Black community or to the gay community? etc.) 162

This talk is a way to affirm "realness" and assert that one can be a Black

same-sex desiring female and not have to "choose" or declare her loyalty one way or the other or put one identity above the other. Audience members and dancers can be valued in their "realness," in their honesty and I think these events are a space where reconciling the facets of their identity is possible because they're not asked to choose who they are "first" above the others.

An example of the power of audience-dancer interactions read as

authentic desire occurred when one dancer, Envy, started paying extra attention to Diana that same night. Throughout our conversation, Diana would point out the actions of Envy while she was dancing which indicated to her that Envy was interested. Envy would watch Diana from atop the bar as she danced, asked another dancer about Diana, spent extra time on our side of the bar performing right above Diana. Diana was quick to notice and point out these details to me, asking for confirmation. "You saw that right? She was lookin' right at me!" It was true; I also felt that Envy was focused on Diana­ and when Envy offered to sell Diana a $20 mouse pad with a screen-printed provocative photo of herself on it, Diana obliged without hesitation. Having contact with customers while retaining a level of mystery is a balancing act that can make a dancer wildly successful, not just in terms of tips or payment for their performance or image but also to increase audience demand at events where she performs, seeking the opportunity to interact with her and observe her responses-and perhaps get a glimpse into her "real" sexual identity, beyond her performances and discover that she is authentically "into" women. 163

To get an up-close and personal interaction with a dancer (and perhaps

test the dancer's same-sex desire quotient), an audience member is

encouraged to tip. For audience members, the tipping moment is an exciting

interaction where money is passed to a performer as an expression of

appreciation. However, make no mistake: the tipping moment is a vulnerable

act as this interaction happens in front of the rest of the gazing audience. This

is a moment when one can look like a pro, or like a fool. This is an important,

very public "citizenship test" moment at erotic parties when one "jockeys for

position" so that her social position can be "read." Her performance can be

successful or she could be humiliated (or something in between). The tipping

moment is a moment that the audience member chooses, a moment she

prepares for by watching others tip. As tipping becomes normalized in the

space, others are encouraged to tip and then mirror those who went before.

Just like group stepping, the desire in the tipping moment is a desire for

acceptance and approval from the group (and from the dancer) with the

opportunity for individual style points by adding one's own flourishes as one

builds more experience as a tipping audience member.

Tipping: A Fun Form of "Danger"

Tipping is an especially vulnerable moment when an audience member emerges from the crowd to get close to the performer (who is very visible in the space, i.e.; on stage and performing for the crowd). The dancer is performing on stage, but when the audience member decides to tip, she 164

becomes part of the performance. Delivering a tip to a dancer is a transaction, a way for the tipper to express her admiration and appreciation for the dancer's skill and performance, but also a way for the tipper to win status in her tipping abilities and share the stage for a brief moment.

Tipping at the erotic parties carries the failure risk for the tipper: will I do it properly? Will I "do something dumb"? For new attendees, one strategy is to observe other, more experienced tippers and ask them to accompany them for their first tipping attempt. When I attended erotic parties, it was common to strike up conversations with strangers next to you and make comments about the show, the performance and generally share the experience together. At Soft N Wet, my friend Deena and I met a 22-year old

Black college student, Lisa Moore (pseudonym). It was Lisa's first Black same-sex desiring women's erotic party; indeed, it was her first foray into a same-sex loving space and she was there to "take in the sights," enjoy herself and, she told us, she was determined to "kiss a girl before the end of the night." Lisa said she had a boyfriend but thought she might like girls. She shared her budding desires with him and he had encouraged her to visit the erotic party to see what she thought. Lisa stuck by us for most of the night, asking questions about how "this all worked" and I was happy to oblige.

Lisa wanted to get closer to the dancers but she didn't know how. "I just don't know what to do," she said, and before we approached the stage to tip, I pointed out other women who were tipping. "See ... do what they do," I said and I showed her how to take a single dollar bill and crease it down the 165

middle, length-wise, to give it rigidity and help it slide past a g-string strap. I held it between my thumb and forefinger and said, "Now, when you get up

there, the dollar should be visible, but don't tip too fast. That's for amateurs.

You want to go up, smile and let her know you're having a good time. She'll pay you some attention, you choose your moment and then, decide how you want to tip. You can do what she's doing ... or you can do it like that

[pointing out other tippers]. Once you tip, that's when the big show starts for you. Then, she'll really entertain you."

Lisa took a deep breath and I asked her which dancer she wanted to tip. She chose a dark-skinned, curvy dancer with shiny silver booty shorts

and a matching tie-front top with ruffles. Another woman was tipping her and the dancer was smiling, resting on the backs of her hands while the customer dropped a flurry of dollar bills onto her body. She said, "You have to go with me." I agreed and we approached the stage area, anticipating where the dancer was headed so we could meet her there at the edge of the stage. I stood behind Lisa and, my arms up around her sides, I tipped the dancer with Lisa between us, as though my arms were acting for Lisa's body.

Lisa was staring, transfixed as the dancer flipped over onto her stomach, raised her butt, hooked her calves around Lisa. I stepped back and Lisa stumbled forward as the dancer pumped her body against Lisa's chest, her lean legs holding her steady. I watched Lisa jostle around as the dancer popped her butt against her, two Lucite-heeled stripper shoes digging into

Lisa's back. I reached around and handed Lisa a handful of dollars and 166

yelled, "OK, now tip her again!" and Lisa's arm immediately lifted over the dancer's body and released the money over the dancer's body. The dollar bills floated across her back and buttocks, bouncing over her skin to the music.

The dancer barely had a moment to say thank you when Lisa whirled around and marched away from the stage toward me, her eyes wide open. She rushed up to me, clamped onto my shoulders with her hands and exclaimed, "I did it! Oh my god, did you see that? That was so hot!" Lisa went to get a drink from the bar and when she returned, she was ready for her next adventure. She looked around, another dancer caught her eye and she said,

"Oooh! I wanna tip her. Let's go!" This time, Lisa went alone and spoke to the dancer before she enjoyed a reward of grinding and thrusting, the dancer's body vibrating against her. Careful not to look too new by tipping too quickly, she paused to enjoy the moment and then again, lifted her arm to sprinkle money onto the dancer. The dancer kissed her on the cheek and Lisa walked back over to me, grinning ear to ear.

The tipping style Lisa chose for her first tipping experience is often referred to as "making it rain" because of the way the dollar bills fall through the air onto the dancer. Rather than the restrained "one dollar at time" slipped into a dancer's g-string, a common tipping style at traditional strip clubs for men, "making it rain" is literally a shower of dollar bills, meant to land on the dancer during her performance. Like its other double meaning for

"ejaculation," "making it rain" works similarly as a sexualized, strip club term 167

to express passionate delight for a dancer or her performance. It implies (like

ejaculation) that the tipper is so overwhelmed and taken in by the dancer that

she simply expels money uncontrollably. It is also a show of status; rather

than tipping "one dollar at a time," one must have a handful of dollars to

"make it rain." Thus, "making it rain" requires more money and performing

this tipping ritual in front of the dancer and the onlookers is a show of

financial means, success and social domination. A tipper who can "make it

rain" often will receive special attention from the dancers and enjoy longer

interactions with them as a result of the public performance of her status.

Another tipping style is one I call "deck of cards." As the name

suggests, the tipper stands right next to the dancer (or stands over her, if she is

lying on the floor or stage) and, holding a stack of dollars in one hand, the

tipper will quickly flick dollars out of the pile into the air, against the dancer's

body. The "deck of cards" technique looks like counting money into the air, but the object is to hold one's hands high enough that the dollars have maximum floating time. Tippers will hold their hands up and away from their bodies so that the dollars take their time and land properly (either touching the

dancer's body in some way or landing onto her body). Even as the dancer moves, the tipper will adjust her hands so that the dollars will follow her movements.

A special style of tipping I call the "hand-off' is simply to hold the tip in one's hand, take the hand of the performer and leave the tip in her hand.

This is especially popular when tipping emcees, drag queens or older 168

performers whose performances may not be explicitly sexual. Particularly at

shows at the Cada Vez, the performances would begin with lip-synching

performances by fully-clothed performers including drag kings, drag queens

and lip synchers performing before the "stripper" acts. Rather than an

explosion of one's sexual excitement or an expression of her attraction, "hand­

off' tips denote a personal and unique relationship between the audience

member and the performer. A "hand-off' tip allows the audience member to

take the hand of the performer, cradle it and, if she wants, she can hold onto it

long enough to say a few words of appreciation, give a hug and, most

importantly, be seen doing so. The transmittal of the tip in the "hand-off' is

not nearly as visible as other forms of tipping and it's not meant to be.

Deemphasizing the tip in the "hand-off' allows the focal point to be the

relationship between the audience member and the performer and thus, this

connection is the status symbol in this case.

Part of the status in being a tipper is becoming visible in the space

when the tipper decides to step into an interaction with the erotic performer.

Katherine Liepe-Levinson describes the thrill of the tipping moment as

"mimetic jeopardy" (2002: 154) because, as the spectator attempts to initiate

and complete the tipping transaction without incident, the dancer "may

continue to move and tease, forcing the patrons to wait in attendance; or they may pretend to stop dancing and accept tips, but then suddenly begin to move

again causing the would-be tippers to fumble in front of the group" (2002:

155). The "jeopardy" comes from "the possibility that one may fumble or 169

otherwise make a mistake" and the customer's journey from the darkness into the spotlight to engage with the dancer "functions not as signs of control over others, but as a badge of the customer's sexual courage and daring" (2002:

155).

Audience members acquire and demonstrate their knowledge, experience and status at erotic parties by group stepping, birthday celebrations, through associations with big players in the party scene (emcees, promoters and headliner dancers) that mark them as "VIPs" and through tipping rituals during interactions with dancers. Although tipping "well" by using highly visual tipping styles (such as "making it rain" and "deck of cards" techniques) is an expression of high status for audience members, what makes a dancer a high status, headlining dancer is not how much she makes in tips, but the demand for her performances and her reputation with audiences and promoters.

A dancer's ability to draw a crowd at events is often measured as their status level, similar to that of a promoter. The more ladies attending your event to see you, the more money you bring in, the more talk there is about your event after the fact, which builds attendance and dancer set lists for the next event, which all reflects well on that promoter who booked her (and elevates the promoter's status). On the opposite end, if the event is not well­ attended, this might be interpreted as a poor reflection on a dancer or the promoter. Former promoter, Di Collins, talks about high-status, headliner performer, Oohzee: 170

I was even able to see Oohzee dance for 10 people. This is someone who dances for thousands of people. And she still had to go on with the show. So, it made her a little more humble. Here she is, not returning my phone calls but now I think she was humbled. There's 10 people and the show must go on .... So it's all coming full circle. I'm still here, I haven't really done anything but I'm still kinda circulating a little bit. (Di Collins, interview with author, January 29, 2005)

Di's interpretation of Oohzee's "failure to attract her usual large

crowd" is that it was retribution for Oohzee not returning Di's phone call to

come dance for her events. Di implies that Oohzee's unwillingness to work

with her is what caused the low attendance at this event and Di got some

personal satisfaction from that. And yet, Oohzee explains that her first

performance as an exotic performer for women was a very small group:

It was 6 people! I had just came off tour dancing [with MC Hammer] for thousands ofpeople! I don't know; I think the intimate setting is more intimidating. (A Taste of Oohzee: 2007)

However, contrary to Di's interpretation of Oohzee as needing to be

'humbled' by a small group performance, Oohzee describes her philosophy toward performances, whether for large or small groups:

Whether I make one dollar in tips or one thousand dollars in tips, my attitude is gonna be the same because I like to dance.... I just always wanna be doin' something different from everybody else .... I don't necessarily dance for money, which a lot of dancers criticize me for. (A Taste of Oohzee: 2007)

Riley Parker is an Oohzee fan and describes her in a similar way, as a special yet accessible performer who does it for the "right reasons:"

[I like] her personality. She's not like a lot of them, you know, stuck­ up. She wiil sit and have a conversation with you, you know, regardless. She's one of those people, she will come out and personally thank everybody. The other dancers don't do that. But she 171

will come out personally when she changes after her performance and whatever and thank everybody. [I like] that overall, she hasn't forgotten where she came from. Her roots are here. She's not too big, you know, she still says thank you. She's the only one I know who can come out for three minutes and makes $500. She'll even thank you even if you didn't tip her. Down to earth. (Riley Parker, interview with author, September 18, 2005)

While she headlines and draws the crowds time after time, Oohzee's interview reveals that she was not always certain that her physique and

signature style would win over the crowd:

I've never really been comfortable, like, with my ... my, I don't really like my body. I just don't. But it's not even really about body for me ... I like the costumes, I like- interpretive, you know, myself through dance and music. I love music .... Which in the beginning, I didn't have that mentality. I just thought they would gonna to look at me, this girl with this crazy body and be like, 'Boo, next ... ' (A Taste of Oohzee: 2007)

In fact, it is her unique, fast-paced, acrobatic dance style which sets her apart and yet, she distances herself from a "sexy" image, despite her reputation for being the most erotic performer at the events, according to her numerous female fans:

I decided to use the name uzi and change the spelling to make it a little more exotic. And it's just, to me it works, because I'm not what you would call sexy and seductive and I'm more like, you know er-... you know (laughing). (A Taste of Oohzee: 2007)

The interviewer in the film is quick to dispute Oohzee's claim that she is not

"sexy" or "seductive" when she reminds Oohzee of her firmly established reputation and the well-known fan following she enjoys. The interviewer in A

Taste ofOohzee remarks quickly, "OK, like, you're not what you would call... there's a lot of people who would beg to differ!" Black same-sex desiring 172

women's erotic parties aren't just sites for audience members to get permission to be sexually expressive toward other women. Performers aren't just making money at the parties; like the women watching them, performers are also seeking acceptance, status and affirmation, even big headliners like

Oohzee.

When Utopian Worldmaking Falls Flat

When an erotic party is "going well," Black women feel the permission and acceptance in the space-and so do the dancers. The energy builds, the excitement is palpable. The space becomes animated, full of amplified music, women's voices, a crowded and pulsing living place.

Permissions are granted easily as the emcee whips the room into a frenzy.

Dollar bills fly through the air-along with laughter, hoots, hollers and lively conversation.

Except when it doesn't. Nowhere is it more clear how important concepts of mirroring, acceptance and permission more obvious than when an event is unsuccessful. When an erotic party is not working, it becomes obvious how important the people in the space are-beyond simply having an available space that meets all the other criteria-in order to be fully successful and really deliver the permissive atmosphere, there must be Black women.

There's a palpable tipping point when the space fills and swells and becomes a Black female space and the energy reaches a nexus and if the event cannot reach that intense moment, the event does not deliver what Black women 173

come to experience. There is no magic number. It depends on the size of the

space. When the space does not fully become a Black female space, it has a different result.

If the space is identified as a Black same-sex desiring women's erotic party but only a few Black women enter the space (and the space remains mostly empty), the safety of anonymity is not working in the space. Rather than using the tipping moment to make yourself stand out, you are already standing out, already magnified-but without the control and choice to do so.

In this way, a low-safety event becomes much like the environment of a traditional strip club. If this condition lasts to such a degree that the promoter becomes concerned she will not make enough money to cover her costs, she may allow men (or more men than she might otherwise) to enter the space.

Although the ratio of women to men may be even (or despite having more women in the space), the presence of the men is amplified because they are not overwhelmingly outnumbered by women in the space (as they would be, usually). In effect, not having enough Black women in the space and introducing more men out of promoter (and dancer) financial need, prevents the space from becoming a Black female space and the utopian vision to come to fruition.

Black same-sex desiring erotic parties serve as spaces for acquiring, practicing and demonstrating knowledge, skills and experience which communicate status levels among audiences as well as performers. While

Black women are accepted and welcomed warmly into the space, displays of 174

status and knowledge can produce distinctions among groups of Black women in the space but one must pay her dues (literally and figuratively); she must learn the dance steps and, of course, spend plenty of money on dancers by tipping in front of the group. When Black women feel the permission in the space, they can step forward to be a part of the show. For some, events become the spaces where they experience their first in-person, up-close erotic experience with another woman. Acceptance and permission to express sexual desires permeates the erotic party-- and even the most famous and beloved of performers are seeking this affirmation. The shaping of the space as a Black erotic utopia creates an environment of acceptance of Black same­ sex desiring women as who they are, their identities integrated rather than being asked to choose or declare their loyalties in terms of race, gender or sexual identity.

Thus, the Black erotic utopian world exists through these appropriated spaces and, while they exist temporarily in space and time, the effect is an experience of self-defined, positive sexuality for Black same-sex desiring women. In this utopian construction, the act of dissemblance is not only unnecessary to protect oneself, if is as though the socialization around being secretive about one's sexual desires never existed-even as the emcees know they must continually reassure and elicit the verbalized and bodily expression of desire in the space. By creating a spatial respite from sexism, racism and homophobia, the events become a "training ground" for re-socialization, encouraging them to take risks and act as sexual agents in pursuit of their own 175

desires. At Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance events, space, gender and agential desire intersect, allowing Black women to say

"yes" to sexual interactions with other women, without needing to say "no" to sexual interactions with men. The opportunity to have this sort of"practice" allows Black women to affirm their sexual desires their way, on their own terms. CHAPTER6

1 "SMUT, BOOZE, SLUTS AND THUGS ": SEXUAL STIGMA AND PUBLIC SEXUAL CULTURE

This chapter analyzes the current state of the parties and Black same-

sex desiring women's erotic freedoms in terms of two major, powerful forces

which impact Black same-sex desiring women's erotic parties: political-

spatial (venue closure and event relocation as a result of the financial interests

of the city) and political-social (national scale fights for sexual freedom and

equal citizenship rights for same-sex identified peoples, including the

management of assimilationist images of us as "respectable"). In the case of

Wet/The Edge, the venue was shut down to make way for a baseball stadium

built by the city. The Soft N Wet party moved to another location in the city

but Wet/The Edge did not. This closure received a lot of press, especially in

the gay weekly, The Washington Blade, along with a great deal of resistance

from communities who would not allow a gay strip clubs in their

neighborhood, citing "danger," "harm to their children," "reduced property

values" and other misconceptions about strip clubs which mixed with

1 I cannot claim credit for this string of reductive words that title this chapter. "Smut, booze, sluts and thugs" comes from a Washington Times article titled, "Say No to Smut, Booze, Sluts and Thugs" by Deborah Simmons, printed on May 25, 2007, explaining why the "special interest" sex businesses of Southeast DC should not get "special rights" to move to another part of the city. 176 177

homophobia to create a powerfully negative backlash against relocation of

Wet/The Edge.

However, at the same time, there was an article published in the

Village Voice in April 2007 expressing concerns about Black lesbian women seeking out male-like pleasures at erotic parties in Brooklyn, New York (such as watching female dancers perform stripteases), criticizing their events and desires, using arguments very similar to those used against gay men in their pursuit of sexual freedom in bathhouses, public parks and strip clubs. The added element of being Black and women-loving-women and connections to radical feminist politics heightened the expectation that lesbian women should not pursue such pleasures because they are "at the expense of' other women and harmful to women generally and that these Black women are contributing to hip-hop culture and all of the negativity associated with it. Ultimately, this chapter will conclude with my own analysis of these writings, the underlying assumptions they make and how such ideas contribute to limiting women's sexual freedom (same-sex and otherwise). I will conclude with a defense of

Black same-sex desiring women's erotic parties as an integral part of Black women's sexual freedom and one of the few places which allow Black women to define themselves, their sexualities and their desires (no matter how the surface of the events may appear to the visiting journalist, Chloe Hilliard, who decided to write the Village Voice article analyzed in this chapter.) 178

Political-Spatial Dynamics: When Clubs Close

The pressures which impact relocation most are exerted by two forces: the city government or new residents/businesses- in short, urban development.

Both forces are welcomed as bringers of "revitalization" of the area through increased tourism, increased property values, shopping, restaurants, entertainment and other commerce. However, these changes are also often opposed by current residents for the power imbalance which forces socio­ economic and cultural change, benefiting the city and newcomers much more than the people living there.

Many urban areas are experiencing the effects of development, but when these changes intersect with the erotic parties and the themes running through this project-- creating a space of one's own where Black women are valued centrally, seeking acceptance and affirmation in one's same-sex desire and expression, secrecy/silence/privacy to maintain safety/comfort-- the venue closures become a microcosm representing how these dynamics interact simultaneously to make the parties what they are. 179

Southeast DC's1 Gay Club Zone "Out of Sight"

"Southeast" was a place to get wild, to "really let your hair down" and indulge. According to Frank Kameny, the clubs initially moved to Southeast in the 1970s, "a time when dancing by same-sex couples was considered taboo in the city's downtown business district and gays still worried about police raids on gay bars" (Chibbaro: 2006a). Kameny explained that the

Police Chief at the time, Jerry Wilson, told them, "'Keep out of sight, and we'll leave you alone' ... So we moved to the warehouse district in Southeast, and we created our own gay entertainment mecca. And these gay businesses, using creativity and good entrepreneurship, turned a sow's ear int

Although they were essentially forced into Southeast, the gay clubs thrived here for a few key reasons. First, land was cheap in the warehouse district. Large areas could be bought for low prices, allowing warehouses to be converted into high-capacity nightclubs with cover charges and alcohol sales. Opening a comparable space in Adams-Morgan or Dupont Circle would be virtually impossible due to lack of available space and higher priced

1 ''Near Southeast" is a phrase that is often used interchangeably with "Navy Yard" in DC mythology and media coverage, but for the purposes of this project, "Near Southeast" refers to the area east of South Capitol Street and north ofM Street, up to the 295 highway (Southeast Freeway). Near Southeast is where Wet/The Edge, Nation and Tracks warehouse­ style clubs were once located. "Navy Yard" refers to the area much closer to the Anacostia River, south ofM Street (encompassing the "O Street clubs" displaced by the stadium development: Ziegfeld's/Secrets bar, Glorious Health adult arcade, Club Washington bathhouse, Follies Theater, La Cage aux Foiles bar). 180

real estate to boot. Even if one could locate and afford such a space in those areas, the financial risk if the business failed would be considerably higher.

Second, compared to high-traffic areas (like Dupont Circle), Near

Southeast and Navy Yard offered more privacy but still had Metro accessibility. Because Near Southeast and Navy Yard was a warehouse district with a low profile, clubgoers could indulge in a range of (particularly male) same-sex pleasures-semi-public sex, drag shows, adult video arcades, bathhouses, encounters with male strippers-- with relative assurance of anonymity and freedom from police harassment or raids. Additionally, the remote location and unassuming exteriors of the clubs added to the mystique of the clubs overall:

Tucked away in a warehouse district less than a mile from the U.S. Capitol, the 0 Street businesses operated out of sight and under the radar screen of most ofresidents and public officials in the nation's capital, providing an air of mystery, intrigue and bawdiness to many of those who patronized the clubs ... [Cheryl Spector said] "When you arrived there it looked just like a bunch of warehouses ... but when you went inside, you would say, 'Oh my God, it's beautiful.' They took a bunch of nondescript warehouses and made them fabulous." (Chibbaro: 2006a)

Although it is important to note the significant difference that gay men owned and operated their own clubs, they are like the Black same-sex desiring women's parties in that, by being "out of sight," they could operate their businesses exactly as they wished-which, in tum, allowed customers to enjoy the clubs as they wished. Because the clubs were so close together, club goers had their choice of venues, activities and could visit more than one since they were all located within a few square blocks, many within easy 181

walking distance. In 1976, the city installed a Metro train public transportation system and the clubs were accessible via a Metro stop (called

"Navy Yard") on the Green Line. Now, anyone who had access to the Metro train system (including Maryland and Virginia residents) could come down and visit the clubs.

However, despite Police Chief Jerry Wilson's promise "to live and let live," the same year the DC Metro system opened, police attentions turned to the gay clubs of 0 Street, setting off a cycle of harassment and dropped charges that would come to repeat itself in years to follow:

In 1976, D.C. police raided the Club Washington gay bathhouse on 0 Street as part of an effort to "clean up" the city for the country's bicentennial celebration, when tourists from around the world descended upon the city. (Chibbaro: 2006a)

Because of the action of the Gay and Lesbian Activists Alliance, "police later dropped charges against several men arrested for allegedly engaging in lewd acts" (Chibbaro: 2006a). However, "a police raid on the Follies Theater, located next to the bathhouse in the early 1990s triggered a large protest rally ... At the request of gay activists, then-Mayor Sharon Pratt Kelly requested an explanation by police of the purpose of the raid" (Chibbaro:

2006a). "Similar to the bath raid, authorities later dropped the charges against several men who were arrested on lewd conduct charges. The police officer who ordered the raid was later transferred and demoted" (Chibbaro:

2006a). 182

As police continued to raid the 0 Street bars, the effort to redefine

Southeast DC away from the "gay mecca/underbelly" and "ghetto" labels and revitalize the area with development began long before the moment the baseball stadium plans were drafted. Navy Yard's initial purpose as a military installation and river port guided the development efforts for many years before it attracted the city's attention as a low-cost expanse of property for the stadium:

The neighborhood had already seen its first wave of growth after the Navy Yard's mission expanded in the late 1990s to include the Naval Sea Systems Command, attracting several new buildings along M Street to house military contractors. The new headquarters of the U.S. Transportation Department came next. After that, in 2004, the federal government opened up the Southeast Federal Center for development. (LeDuc and Nakamura: 2008)

As development companies (such as Forest City) began buying up inexpensive Southeast DC land for condominiums and office spaces, other developers and realtors also turned their gaze to this area-- and followed suit with more residential and commercial building. Development was a plan for

Southeast DC, even before the stadium entered the conversation. "Cleaning up" Southeast by closing the gay clubs wasn't just about reappropriating the land, it was about completing the makeover the city had in store for the area.

Nationals Baseball Stadium: The 2004 Proposal

"Major League Baseball officials announced on Wednesday that they will move the Montreal Expos to D.C. next year, returning baseball to the nation's capital 33 years after the Washington Senators left" reads an October 183

8 1 \ 2004 Washington Blade article entitled, "Stadium Would Displace Gay

Clubs." "The announcement came one week after city officials unveiled plans

for the District government to finance a $400 million stadium for a baseball

team on the Southeast waterfront, where rows of warehouses and at least six

gay bars and gay adult entertainment clubs are located" (Chibbaro: 2004).

This piece of real estate included, among other long-time gay establishments,

Wet/The Edge. As it turned out, this Blade coverage was just the beginning of what would be a long and dramatic fight to keep the "O Street clubs" alive.

"This is an historic gay block," said Frank Kameny, founder of the gay movement in DC. "We are down there because we were exiled by Police

Chief Jerry Wilson in or around 1970" (Chibbaro: 2004). Kameny then announced his plan to "urge the city's gay organizations to join him in petitioning Mayor Anthony Williams and the D.C. Council to approve legislation waving existing zoning rules" so that the 0 Street clubs could relocate to another part of the city and continue to operate. Kameny declared, echoing the clubs' fight over thirty years ago, "If the city is now going to throw us out, they have an obligation to allow us to go someplace else"

(Chibbaro: 2004).

Aside from the loss of the gay clubs, discussions of the Washington

Nationals stadium in the Near Southeast/Navy Yard district of DC also asked questions about whether the stadium would be a "good thing" for the city or a

"bad thing" for the city, in terms of economic development for Southeast. On the one hand, some argued that it would generate tourism, boost DC's local 184

economy and "revitalize" the area with jobs, spending and businesses that would grow up around the stadium. On the other hand, however, others argue that the stadium was a foolish way to spend public money (when Major

League Baseball could have easily footed the bill). Stadium opponents said the stadium would displace many residents (or make the property values rise so quickly that they could not afford to stay.)

1 On July l 6 h 2006, "two men, one armed with a gun, made off with more than $18,000 in cash after robbing the Wet/Edge nightclub complex ...

The robbery came at the same time that the nearby Nation nightclub held its final Velvet dance party2" (Lynsen: 2006). Sergeant Brett Parson, out gay

DC Police Office and commander of the Gay and Lesbian Liaison Unit, "said investigators are looking at whether the robbery was inside job" and explained that this robbery was not indicative of a larger trend in the area and that

"anyone seeking to go out and enjoy the nightlife of Washington DC can feel secure that this type of crime is very unusual" (Lynsen: 2006). Members of the GLLU focus on making the city a safer place for LGBTQ peoples and are often a highly-visible presence at gay clubs from time to time to ensure safety of customers as well as compliance with laws. Sgt. Parson is a well-known representative of the GLLU and occupies a powerful position in LGBTQ communities in DC: as protector ofLGBTQ peoples from harm, danger, hate, bashing and offering a culturally competent police presence-and yet, he must uphold the law, even when it is unfair or discriminatory or works against

2 "Velvet" was a dance night at Nation that hosted mainly gay men. 185

LGBTQ people. The robbery added to the increasing pressure on Wet/The

Edge and, just a few weeks after the robbery, promoter Vicki Harris

announced and began planning for the final Soft N Wet party.

The Final Wet: September 9t\ 2006

On September 9th 2006, Soft N Wet held its farewell 12-hour party at

Wet. Tickets were sold in advance for $25, which quickly sold out. Full­

color, collector's item, advance tickets for "The Final Wet" were sold online

and through friends of Vicki's but even arriving early meant waiting in line.

The air was electric as long-time attendees reminisced in line together,

comparing their first party experiences with each other and seeing who had

been coming to this Wet party the longest. It was a marker of pride to have

been coming here "since the beginning" and Vicki stood at the door to hug us

as we came in one last time to experience her landmark event.

The final party was twelve hours long-- it started early and ended late,

dancers sliding down poles for the floor show and then dancing together,

soapy-skinned in the mirrored shower surrounded by black tile at the back of the bar, infiltrating the entire club's square footage, into The Edge, where

doms performed on the stage area for a small concert hall-sized audience of

ecstatic femmes. The final Soft N Wet included multiple vendor tables in the large social areas, selling clothing, essential oils, rainbow pride gear, custom

airbrushed images, stripper gear and more. By the back patio, where a portable shower system poured water over dancers in the DC summer heat, 186

music blared over the standing speakers as sections of the crowd danced, socialized, watched and tipped, all taking full advantage of the space and spirit of the final event.

Despite the sadness of knowing the venue would no longer be the home of this well-known, well-loved event, the final Soft N Wet was also defiant in this last manifestation. Rather than the usual confines of the black­ painted walls of the club, taking steps to conceal and protect the erotic interactions within, the club's doors burst with women like never before, spilling out onto the sidewalk and into the back. Dancers piled into the shower together, removing clothes and writhing together in nude group performances for the screaming crowd. In three years of going to Wet events,

I had never seen it so full of women or on the level of excitement and fever pitch as this final party.

For this and so many Black same-sex desiring women's erotic parties, staying well within the law was not an option- it was a requirement to maintain the event's protection from harassment or shut down but not this time. The venue was being tom down. Wet was being ripped away from us and from the gay men who occupied it the rest of the week. This was it. It was as if we were riding in a runaway truck, barreling down a highway at top speed. Sure, we could be pulled over by the cops but we didn't even know how to stop if they managed to catch up with us. The party was the point of no return- we were going to get every moment, every memory and each experience we could out of this place and take it with us before the venue was 187

taken away. The sense of "borrowing" the venue, protecting the festivities

inside and being certain to be "polite guests" to ensure the neighbors don't

wake up and be sure we were able to use the venue again-this delicate dance

vaporized. This final event was an assertion that we were the venue's rightful

occupants and that we were entitled to get everything owed us from our time

there.

The Blade covered the final Soft N Wet event, describing the long

time party as having been "a haven" and that its end "will leave a hole in the

local lesbian social scene that may be hard to fill" (Volin: 2006). Ms. Vicki

felt the sting of the loss deeply, not just for herself and the trailblazing Black

women's party she had sustained for so long, but for the accessible

atmosphere she had created for them:

It's just like losing a child, you know what I'm saying? It's so profound. People have been calling me from all over the country, asking 'You OK?' We're all thinking we had months and then it was like, oh, it's in September. I was just in shock .... It's a loss for these women because they don't have a place like that ... We're going to try another environment, but it's hard. I always tried to treat people as if they were coming into my living room, as if they were guests in my home. (Volin: 2006)

Beejay Johnson ("Beejay the DeeJay") came on as the Soft N Wet

Afternoons' DJ soon after the event started back in the early Nineties. Beejay

expressed his profound connection with the monthly event and the loss of its unique contribution to Black gay life in Washington:

'I really love Wet and I'm going to miss it tremendously,' says Johnson, who is gay. 'There'll be nothing like it in the future. Everything has to come to an end, but I'm really sorry to see this party 188

go. When it ends ... I think I'm going to have to see a doctor. I'm serious' (Volin: 2006).

Soft N Wet spent nearly fifteen years at Wet, the longest running Black same- sex desiring women's erotic party in the country.

Wet/The Edge Liquor License is Suspended

Less than a week after Soft N Wet's final party, the Alcoholic

Beverage Control board suspended the strip club's liquor license for 45 days and fined the club $3500. Despite Sgt. Parson's assertions that the robbery was out of the ordinary and customers should come enjoy all that DC has to offer at the clubs, the ABC board issued a four-page document containing allegations of violent incidents occurring between October 6, 2005 and

3 January 25th, 2006 , citing "two non-fatal stabbings inside the club," several fights inside and on the street outside," including customers "wielding pipes and sticks" (Chibbaro: 2006b). Sgt. Parson of the GLLU said that "many of the alleged violations occurred on nights when the Edge clientele consisted mainly of lesbians" and although race is not mentioned in the article, in addition to Soft N Wet Afternoons, Black women sometimes offered drag shows and other parties at the venue.

But the Black women weren't the only ones blamed in the article.

Apparently, Sgt. Parson recalled an incident that had occurred nearly a year before when "he observed a nude dancer making sexual contact with a patron

3 1 Note that these dates do not include the July 16 h, 2006 robbery. 189

while performing on stage" on November 24th, 2005, when he was there to investigate one of the "lesbian fights":

Parson told the Blade that the dancer in question was dancing nude on a platform next to a dance floor used by customers and invited a male customer to join him on the platform. According to Parson, the dancer positioned himself behind the customer, who was fully clothed, and began thrusting his genitals against the customer's buttocks in what Parson called a performance of simulated anal intercourse. (Chibbaro: 2006b)

Although the alleged incident occurred almost a year before and although

Wet/The Edge closed its doors after the Soft N Wet party on September 9th, because of its timing, the ABC report effectively removed the possibility of relocation for the venue.

One might wonder what "lesbian fights" and "simulated anal sex" have to do with regulating the service of alcohol and why such incidents would matter to a board called "Alcohol Beverage Control." In fact, two years prior, the Alcoholic Beverage Regulation Administration was removed from monitoring or enforcing any laws concerning sexual performances at businesses which serve alcohol. The Gay and Lesbian Activists Alliance precipitated this change in 2004, arguing that "the job of the ABC Board is to regulate the sale of alcohol, not enforce their own code of morality"

(Chibbaro: 2006b). It would follow that the DC police department would enforce laws concerning any infractions concerning sexual performances, rather than the ABC Board.

In this case, the ABC Board and Sgt. Brett Parson (again, the commander of the Gay and Lesbian Liaison Unit and a gay police officer) 190

worked together to combine these "violations" into one report, withdrawing their liquor license and effectively closing Wet/The Edge's doors for good, in

Southeast as well as any other part of the city:

... city officials said it would be up to the DC police department to use its discretion to enforce other existing laws, such as those that bad lewd or obscene acts, in cases of alleged sexual activity at bars or nightclubs. Coudriet4 said the ABC Board appears to have cited Edge­ Wet for the alleged sexual act reported by Parson based on other regulations that prohibit nude performers from coming into close contact with customers. (Chibbaro: 2006b)

Despite talks of moving the clubs to other locations in the city, this gay club zone was not to be recreated in Washington DC. Frank Kameny and DC

Councilmember, Jim Graham, proposed and eventually withdrew a bill to allow a one-time relocation for the clubs. No wards in the city wanted any of the clubs to relocate to their areas, neither as single clubs nor as a group.

Fears of a "red-light district" fueled by the characterization of the clubs as

"sex clubs" in the media coverage helped to prevent their re-opening and successfully vaporized them from Washington DC. Building on this image,

Deborah Simmons' Washington Times article in May of 2007 argued against the relocation of the Southeast gay clubs, denying her homophobia but combining stereotyped images of dangerous, predatory gay promiscuity and the usual "anything-goes" characterization of strip clubs as sad, meaningless harbingers of disease in a context of the economically-disadvantaged, racialized, mythologized section of DC called Southeast:

4 Jeff Coudriet is the operations manager for the Alcoholic Beverage Regulation Administration (ABRA), which has jurisdiction over the ABC Board. 191

For me, nude dancing, hard- and soft-core porn, massage parlors that are sex dens, and strip-teasing in establishments that sell alcohol don't need redefining. It doesn't matter whether the dancers, strippers and proprietors of such sex-oriented establishments are heterosexual, bisexual, homosexual, transsexual, asexual or just down right confused. Smut, booze, sluts and thugs create a powerfully dangerous elixir. (Simmons: 2007)

Chiming in that relocation would lead to a red-light district elsewhere in the city, Simmons claims that such grouping of establishments "can leave indelible marks on a city" and can "depress property values, create long- standing blight and bring about migraines for law enforcement." Drawing on the usual negative images of strip clubs and stereotypes about gay sexuality, she explains "while the establishments themselves have no socially redeeming values, the cumulative effects such businesses have on society in general are obvious and can be overwhelming" (Simmons: 2007).

Liberation vs. Assimilation

Where do these "effects" Simmons writes of come from? What are the

"cumulative effects" that are so "obvious"? Why is a male dancer "simulating anal sex" with a male customer in a gay male strip clubs treated differently from a female dancer on stage in a strip club grinding her crotch six inches away from a male customer's face? Because heterosexual desire is deemed normal and natural, procreative, whereas same-sex desire must justify itself as more than base pleasure-seeking or immaturity, falling short of the

"fulfillment" that heterosexuality provides. Beyond the stadium plans and agendas to revitalize Southeast Washington DC, Wet/The Edge was an easy 192

target for moralizing about how gay men's venues promote disease, violence and lower property values, justifying its closure and preventing it from reopening elsewhere in the District. The histories of gay male sexual stereotypes, dating back to the pathologizing of same-sex desire, played a key role in the demise of Wet/The Edge.

Not unlike Simmons' assertions that strip clubs and gay men in a

Black neighborhood constituted a threat that needed no explanation (disease, violence and other assorted infringements on the rest of "good" folks who will pay the price if we don't put a stop to this), AIDS was similarly theorized to come as a result of the "gay lifestyle:"

The so-called 'Overload theory' held that 'the gay lifestyle' (the combination of drug use, poor health habits and a history of sexually transmitted diseases resulting from sexual promiscuity) is responsible for the collapse of the immune system ... The Overload theory posits a ... direct, ironic, and insidious dynamic: the immediate sensual pleasures of 'promiscuous' sex sets in motion a hidden telos of disease and death. (Seidman 1988: 190)

Simmons borrows this homophobic theory to declare that the combination of

"the ghetto," gay men and establishments which catered to their sexual appetites leads to a permissive atmosphere where gay men do damage to themselves and to others, without regard for consequences in favor of hedonistic pleasures. She continues to explain why the clubs should not be allowed to relocate, claiming they would inevitably create a "red-light district" in otherwise wholesome areas of the city-and that gay men understand that and this is the actual reason why they accepted having their clubs in Southeast. She also claims that relocating the clubs would spread 193

various social ills, which gay men of course bring upon themselves, in her eyes:

Red-light districts near in near residences depress property values, create long-standing blight and bring about migraines for law enforcement. That's precisely why proponents have no argument about being exiled to a commercial-manufacturing area of D.C. Also, the people who frequent red-light districts create all kinds of problems for themselves and the public that can lead to a city being labeled unhealthy -- substance abuse, uninsured health care, sexually transmitted diseases and HIV I AIDS. (Simmons: 2007)

Simmons' words are reminiscent of the backlash against gay rights movements, claiming that gay life is, by definition, sexually unhealthy and careless in terms of consequences. Vincent Coppola wrote in Newsweek in

1983, when the AIDS crisis was fully underway, "ironically, the freedom, the promiscuity ... that many gays declared an integral part of their culture have come to haunt them" (Coppola: 1983). As the logic goes, gays are to blame for their own problems (including AIDS), gays are immature (instant gratification seekers) and 'why should we care about self-destructing people' except that, with time, their recklessness will come to harm "innocent bystanders" (in this case, property owners who will lose money on their land, police officers who will be constantly attending to the inevitable disturbances/violence at the clubs, taxpayers who will foot the bill for healthcare as the gays die from their indiscretions, people who don't use drugs being hit by cars, assaulted, hurt by people who do, etc.)

As Seidman documents, what occurs as a result of this characterization of gays as being to blame for their situation is the creation of the "respectable 194

homosexual," who debuted (as far as press coverage) in the New York Times in 1983. Prominent gays began to "uniformly criticize the immature and irresponsible promiscuous lifestyle accepted in the gay subculture of the

1970s" (Seidman 1988: 194). Newspaper articles began reporting a "new emphasis upon dating, courting, and nonsexual [bathhouse] attendance" and the Times "ran pieces of homosexual couples who were obviously intended to serve as role models to a crisis-ridden and anomic gay community" (1988:

194-195). More and more articles featured homosexual men who were

"indistinguishable from conventional heterosexuals" with "typical heterosexual concerns such as career, family, domestic affairs, hobbies and anniversaries," cultivating the image of the "discreet, monogamous, coupled and conventional homosexual life" which was endorsed "as an alternative to more unconventional gay socioerotic models" (1988: 195).

Gay men also participate in self-criticism when considering the struggles of their communities. "For many gay men, AIDS symbolized the failure of a gay subculture and lifestyle" and Michael Callen appealed to those

"bad gays" who were still misbehaving and bolstering the image of a promiscuous, disease-ridden, immature narcissist:

We have remained silent because we have been unable or unwilling to accept responsibility for the role that our own excessiveness has played in our present public health crisis. But, deep down, we know who we are and we know why we're sick. (Callen: 1982)

The Blade printed a letter to the editor from a gay man about the closing of

Wet to make room for the stadium. It sums up the sense that gays are to 195

blame for their own problems and that spaces which "promote gay promiscuity" are of no value to the community and not worth preserving or

fighting for:

Eric Cox thinks "the gay community should fight like hell to prevent the destruction of these popular, well-attended clubs" on 0 Street, SE. Why should we care about (much less fight for) a couple of seedy sex clubs and a defunct strip club that closed twice for lack of business? As for the drag palace, if it's so popular and well-attended, surely it will thrive elsewhere. (Editorial: 2004)

Women Blaming Women

For the Black same-sex desiring women who sought same-sex entertainment in the form of female go-go dancing and striptease (at events such as Soft N Wet at Wet/The Edge), new layers of sex-negative feminism and claims of "women oppressing women" begin to emerge in the media and recent commentary about the parties. The writing criticizes same-sex desiring women as simple "imitations" of men, hearkening back to ancient theories that lesbians have a "male brain" and feel "male desire" and, thus, want to be men. In sum, same-sex desiring women are criticized even more harshly for their participation in "objectifying other women" (whereas, such

"objectification" of other men is thought to be integral to gay male sexuality).

Black same-sex desiring women are also held accountable for such images, but additionally assailed for borrowing images from hip-hop (a cultural phenomenon already under scrutiny) in their identities and at events as well as their "sexual oppression of other Black women" and the perceived 196

tamishment this brings upon (not just Black lesbian women but) Black people as a group.

Given these initial, surface-level interpretations of Black same-sex desiring women and their events, it's no wonder that the parties have existed for so long, out of public view and away from such judgments. In essence, this is further support for why Black same-sex desiring women's erotic parties stay out of the sightlines of police and the public-and why this project did not happen sooner-because of all the stereotypes that would be reified and the histories of who and what Black people are, what it means to be a same­ sex desiring person, what a strip club's value is and having meanings placed upon them rather than defining themselves for themselves. They knew this would add up to judgments and negative assessments and place their events at risk. When those articles were published, they discovered they were right to worry about that because that is precisely what this journalist did.

Chloe Hilliard's Article: "Girls 2 Men"

Chloe Hilliard's Village Voice article, "Girls 2 Men," documents her visit to the Lab, a nightclub in Brooklyn where a "weekly 19-and-over females-only hip-hop party" is in full swing. "About half of the black and

Hispanic crowd is femme, the other half' A Gs,' or 'aggressives,' who also refer to themselves as 'studs'" (Hilliard: 2007). Hilliard tells of how the AGs fight over femmes in the club, literally: 197

... two AGs get into a pushing match over a femme, one shouts, 'Suck my dick, nigga! I'll fuck your whole shit up!' Friends break it up, pulling one outside the club to get the story. One of the women had tried to talk to the other's girlfriend while her back was turned. But it's a common occurrence. No femme, committed or not, is really off­ limits. (Hilliard: 2007)

She describes another instance of femme-wandering and AG displays of control, when the

petite Hispanic bartender sporting braids down the middle of her back and a baseball cap ... spots something in the crowd and leaps onto the bar. She sees another woman dressed in boyish hip-hop gear hitting on her femme girlfriend on the crowded dance floor. The bartender jumps to the floor, pushes her way past dancers, and grabs her woman by the arms. After giving her a rough, disapproving shake, she drags her quarry back to the bar, where her girlfriend will remains standing in silence for the rest of the night. (Hilliard: 2007)

Hilliard paints a picture of violence, misogyny and "very young black and

Hispanic lesbians" who mimic a "thug's life" that "they pursue with almost as much passion as they do the hottest femme in the club" (Hilliard: 2007).

Hilliard characterizes the lesbians of color she meets at the Lab as either AGs, rough and thuggish women who bind their breasts and masculinize their dress and "swagger" (walk)-or as femmes, who tolerate what Hilliard views as the same objectification done to them by hip-hop's imagery and lyrics. Hilliard writes very little about femmes in her piece, except their proximity to the gender-variant AGs. To quote AG, Si ya, "You can be holding your femme girlfriend's hand in the club, and she could be looking around, searching for a flyer AG. She's going to want to stray, slip her a number. All lesbians are sneaky" (Hilliard: 2007). 198

For most of her article, Hilliard focuses squarely on the AGs, the hip- hop imagery she sees at the Lab and assigning the same meanings to them as so many critics ascribe to young Black males who embrace hip-hop:

Rap videos have long provided men of color with milestones on their journeys to manhood ... guys are told how to be indestructible, sexually assertive, and in general, badasses. The misogyny and homophobia implicit in that message has long raised the hackles of critics. Oprah Winfrey and columnist Leonard Pitts Jr. made news recently for saying 'enough' to the influence of rap's rougher edges on black culture. (Hilliard: 2007)

The promoter for the Lab parties is quoted as telling Hilliard, "It gets rougher each year, and it has a lot to do with who their idol is and who they want to image themselves after, like these thug rappers" (Hilliard: 2007). Even other

AGs comment on what AGs do and how they act. "These AGs have a disrespectful mentality, and they get it from men, hoodlums, dudes that are in the 'hood all day ... They act like a bunch of little damn boys that ain't got no sense" (Hilliard: 2007).

Mignon Moore makes clear what could be bothersome about AGs, especially for other Black lesbians who do not identify as AGs:

Although the aggressive is ordinarily used to describe a personality trait or behavior, the terms aggressive, aggressor, or AG are labels many black lesbians in New York use to indicate a woman who has a masculine presentation of self... [Jill] Johnston found that less feminine lesbians had more freedom to their sexual and sensual needs in casual intimate encounters ... The use of the label aggressive is class biased, and many middle-class or upwardly mobile lesbians strongly dislike the term. (Moore 2006: 114)

Prescribing "proper" behavior for the "troubled people" in your group seems to be part of being a member of a marginalized community. Mignon Moore 199

suggests this impulse could come from difference in class, those of higher

class standing feeling entitled to judge and instruct those in a lower class

standing. The National Black Justice Coalition's5 correspondent, Cheril

Clarke's wonders if the Lab's AGs could get blue-collar jobs (instead of hustling or adopting a street image). She called the Village Voice article, "a mural of ignorance" but then quickly follows with prescriptive advice: "for the women interviewed let this be a lesson that if you don't want something to be printed about you in quotes then don't say it on the record-or at all for that matter," adding, "when dealing with the press you can't control the final article." She cites the quote Siya made about femmes being "sneaky," and writes, "there are many more [quotes] that make it hard for me to put all the blame on the writer" (Clarke: 2007).

I'm not denying hip-hop cultural elements at the Black same-sex desiring women's erotic parties. The clothing and gender blending Hilliard describes is clearly present, the music pervasive and the increasing imagery of poles and strippers in hip-hop videos makes the dance performances at the parties further contributive to the overall visual and auditory influence of hip- hop. However, what Hilliard and Clarke fail to do is go beyond an obvious answer of "they want to be gangsters/men/thugs/etc." and consider what they're seeing as part of a larger effort: to create a place where it is safe to perform these identities with one another.

5 According to its website, The National Black Justice Coalition is "is a civil rights organization dedicated to empowering Black same-gender-loving, lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgendered people. The Coalition works with our communities and our allies for social justice, equality, and an end to racism and homophobia." 200

Unable to control the image of Black women or lesbians, Hilliard,

Clarke and Levy respond by "exposing" the "bad behavior" of those with whom they would otherwise identify, distancing themselves in order to place the "blame" for negative stereotypes squarely on whom they view as the

"offenders." Indeed, Mignon Moore would not be surprised to read Hilliard's surface analysis and critical assessment of lesbian masculine presentations.

Her work asserts that AG figures become easy targets for scrutiny:

The harshest, most critical language about black lesbians is reserved for women with a nonfeminine presentation of self. These women have always been the face oflesbian identity, bearing the brunt of the hostility and misunderstanding for the group. The fear of stigmatization from one's own group members can be paralyzing, particularly when those whose opinions matter most, those to whom one feels closest, and those to whom one turns for support and protection from outsiders become one's harshest critics. Cheryl Clarke6 agrees, saying that because black people have always contributed significantly to the well-being of black communities, 'it is exceedingly painful for us to face public denunciation from black folk-the very group who should be championing our liberation.'" (Moore 2006: 117-118)

It is no wonder that there is little coverage of the Black same-sex desiring women's erotic parties, given the pressure to be "acceptable" and

"respectable," not just in terms of what "proper" Black women are supposed to be in terms of their sexual expression (dissemblance) but also in terms of gender presentation. Moore continues:

Even in a broader context of lesbian women of all racial groups, there is fear that calling attention to an analyzing the experiences of black

6 Not the same person as Cheril Clarke, correspondent for the National Black Justice Coalition and author who suggested that the AGs get blue-collar jobs in the NBJC column. Cheryl (with a "y") Clarke is a Black lesbian poet and Director of the Office of Diverse Community Affairs and Lesbian-Gay Concerns at Rutgers University. 201

gay women will result in an interpretation of their actions as opposing or inferior to those of white lesbians. (Moore 2006: 118)

Butch-femme dichotomies were widely recognized in the 1970s but then much of the work done was effectively silenced when the women's movement claimed it to be an oppressive arrangement (Loulan 1990). In the 1990s, new gendered presentation of self emerged but were:

no longer analyzed as expressions of intensely personal experiences around sexual identity as they had been ... Instead gender display was interpreted as a less serious form of sexual amusement. Categories of gender display were said to be more ambiguous than in past generations, and researchers saw more choice in the types of gender presentation lesbians create. As a result of this work, differences in gender presentation among lesbians are now seen as frivolous play on cultural representations of gender and not strongly linked to a personal identity or structure of norms for a community. (Moore 2006: 119)

Johari Jones, a 26 year old lesbian in the Air Force who describes the erotic parties as "a space where I could just relax and be myself and just present myself the way I wanted," described her gender presentation as, "tomboyish, studdish, dominant role," adding her view that strippers in traditional strip clubs may not be "turned on by that" and that masculine presentations may cause her to "not get as many looks" from dancers in traditional clubs but that

"it is a business, so they won't turn you down and some of them really like it too." "But at the [Black same-sex desiring women's] parties," she says, "in a woman-loving-women environment, there's a lot more roles. To an outsider who is not an insider, we're just imitating the traditional scene. It just goes back to how you want yourself perceived. Very aggressive, very dominant roles, very feminine, lipstick lesbians, you know, these roles. It's a wide 202

range." In other words, new forms of gender expression among Black same­ sex desiring women go beyond butch-femme or masculine-feminine dichotomies.

Like Johari's self-described gender presentation, Mignon Moore's work goes past a binary construction (femme-boi or femme-AG) to describe

Black lesbian gender identities. Moore identifies 48 percent of her sample as

"femmes, or feminine women ... they wear dresses or skirts, form-fitting jeans, tops that are low cut or that show cleavage, makeup, jewelry and accessories such as a purse or high-heeled shoes that display a sense of femininity" (Moore 2006: 124) and identifies another 34 percent of her sample as "gender-blender ... a style related to but distinct from an androgynous presentation of self... they usually wear certain men's clothing like pants or shoes, combined with something less masculine like a form­ fitting short or a little makeup" (2006: 124). Eighteen percent of her sample were "transgressive ... they usually wear men's clothing and shoes and coordinate these outfits with heavy jewelry, belts with large, masculine buckles, and ties or suspenders for a more dressed-up look" (2006: 125).

Moore is careful to remind us that these gender categories are "limited to how they look physically" and are "not necessarily connected to any specific personality traits or ideologies about gender or gender display" (2006: 124).

Moore also points out that there is overlap among these categories and they are not discrete. 203

Johari felt the same was true of the audience and performers at the

Black same-sex desiring women's erotic parties. Whereas traditional strip clubs offered mostly feminine women, the erotic parties fulfilled the range of

Black same-sex desiring women's gender presentations:

I have gone to the Wet/The Edge- that's where I've seen the most shows. Most of the doms, they don't get completely naked. You know, they wear a sports bra or something. They'll be dressed up with the tie for someone's birthday. I respect them for doing that. I've seen Lucky the emcee, she's one of the more infamous emcees in the DC area. I would consider her a dom ... but she was doing the show and then came out in some feminine clothes and she started taking off stuff-and then she showed her crotch!... You never know when you're going to see a special show. In that space, people are allowed to express themselves how they wanted. For the most part, the audience responded well and that was really good to see. I think it's sexy, actually! (Johari Jones, interview with author, March 16, 2008)

Riley Parker, who presents as a dom, told me that the gender ambiguity can also be a drawback when it comes to traditionally organized categories of who would be attracted to her: "If you ever go into the Baltimore community, they all look alike, you can't tell who's the dom and who's the femme. I don't know if it's for professional reasons, but down in Baltimore, you can't tell!"

Femme dancers are also known for taking control of a dancer-audience interaction, drawing a dom into the performance and inverting the power dynamics implicit in dom-femme gender organization. Johari describes one such incident of her "loss of control" when interacting with a dancer, connecting her "take over" with Johari's attraction to the femme dancer who made Johari her "prey":

When The Edge closed down, I was actually able to go ... they always have parties there and one of the dancers came out onto the floor. She 204

was kind of my type. Chocolately brown and nice assets, let's say. I started givin' her money and the next thing I know, I'm part of the show. I don't know how long it lasted but it had to be at least two to three minutes. She managed to flip me into the air somehow. I had a long sleeve button up shirt on and wifebeater and some jeans ... She had managed to get me out of my shirt and take my wifebeater off. I was on the floor with her in my bra and my pants were starting to be unbuttoned. My boxers are starting to show. My friends are like, they were having a blast. They were just like, "We told you not to go out there!" They told me. I usually don't, I usually don't get that close. I've seen it happen to countless others. I was feeling good, I thought "why not." I didn't know I was going to become her prey. That was one of my most memorable experiences at Edge. (Johari Jones, interview with author, March 16, 2008)

Erotic parties are an opportunity for gender play, where categories of gender presentation are multiplied, along with blurring lines of "who does what" and

"to whom" based on gender categories. While Hilliard chose to focus on a particular category (A Gs), the reality of the erotic parties is that gender presentation and power is variable and shifts around regularly.

When it comes to Black lesbian environments (such as the Lab and

Black same-sex desiring women's erotic parties in DC), the women in

Moore's work found that the spaces "gave [them] the freedom to "be herself' ... by dressing in a nonfeminine way, and it also rewarded her with the attention of feminine women, who found that gender display highly desirable" (Moore 2006: 129). "In black lesbian environments, lesbians ... feel liberated by these categories of gender display, especially the gender- blender identity, because they allow for a way to express a nonfeminine gendered self and to have that identity values by other gay women" (2006:

129). 205

The Village Voice article and the criticisms Hilliard levels at the Black

women of The Lab makes clear that:

When black lesbians take on these forms of gender display, they run the risk of confirming negative stereotypes about black women's sexuality and subject themselves to dangerous confrontations with a larger society that devalues any raced expression of sexuality but particularly denounces and denigrates images of masculinity in black women. Transgressive presentations of self also reify stereotypes of black women as mannish and are particularly threatening to the male possession of masculinity .... As a result of their gender display, many face hostility from conformists in mainstream society, including middle-class black lesbians. (Moore 2006: 130)

Although Hilliard seems to understand the importance of AGs having a space that values their gendered performances of self, she surmises that the cultural cost (negative stereotypes, "oppressing" other women and worries about embarrassing the larger, general group with "undesirable" behavior, etc.) is too high. While she may blame the A Gs for "making us look bad," it her writing which misunderstands what she sees and reifies old stereotypes, rather than going beyond the surface to discover how same-sex desiring women are redefining themselves for themselves.

While sexual and racial moralizing is not unique to Black women judging one another (as we've seen), it is part of the sentiment which launched so many of the Black same-sex desiring women's erotic parties and why they continue to be so successful in meeting Black same-sex desiring women's needs. When Jocelyn Maria Taylor took her shirt off that night at Tracks in

1990 in Washington DC, she began to imagine a place where she could be as naked as she wanted, where her body was not read as a "freak" or as 206

"hypersexual" but celebrated as her own, to do with as she pleased, regardless of what the world outside the door might read onto her naked skin. Black same-sex desiring women's parties are spaces where Black women's bodies are re-read not as negatively hypersexual but as erotic, powerful, beautiful, desired by women and desiring a/women. CONCLUSION

This project begins its analysis with an ad featured on the inside of the cover of the May 2007 issue of She magazine, a national lesbian magazine, displays the reclined body of a busty, blonde, white woman, inviting women into two traditional strip clubs in Florida where men are entertained by performing women. According to this ad, "all ladies" are "welcome," they do not need a male escort and they can enjoy strippers, right alongside men for, ostensibly, the same reasons that men go-to watch women perform erotically and be lavished with their attentions.

Brian McNair posits that "striptease culture" (2002) permits greater access to sexual visibility and the sexual public sphere than ever-including women, gays and lesbians. He asserts that strippers are now "feisty independent souls rather than exploited victims" (McNair 2002: 90) but blankets his assertions across racial lines, generalizing about the media's increased willingness to complicate discussions about sexuality without interrogating who gets left out of that discussion.

He grounds his thinking in the theories of Jurgen Habermas- the emergence of the public sphere as a space for discussion of matters of cultural importance, across class lines. However, like Habermas, what McNair fails to fully articulate in his argument is the role that race and gender actually play in

207 208

terms of participation in the public sphere. Similar criticisms ofHabermas point out the lack of attention to the ways in which women and various ethnic and racial groups are excluded from the idealized bourgeois public sphere- as well as the lack of attention to the multiple public spheres (plural) which such groups have fashioned for themselves, on their own terms.

Chapter Two shifts the discussion from the theoretical public sphere to the use and appropriation of public space. Don Mitchell's theories of space explain preceisely why it could seem like striptease culture is in full effect, even if Black same-sex desiring women are not represented. He writes, that when cultural groups battle over space and visibility, the "winning" culture's values "take on an appearance of nature, they seem obvious and unchangeable ... the invocation of 'culture' becomes a means for representing relations of power" (Mitchell 2000: 77).

By including excluded voices and experiences of two Black women I interviewed (one an event promoter and the other, an audience member), the notion that striptease culture extends to everyone shifts to away from media representation and into a more basic question of who has access to actual public space to explore one's sexual desires. As Chapter Two describes, Di

Collins was ignored at the Nexus Club, ended up leaving (and starting her own events). Angel Tavares was harassed at Club 55, but the bouncer removed the harasser. But because Club 55 had a marginalized status in terms of race (featuring Black female dancers and catering to Black male audience in a marginalized part of town, Southeast), the club was more likely to 209

accommodate her. When their stories are integrated with McNair's assertion of a theoretically democratized sexual public sphere, the notion of an all access pass to actual spaces (traditional strip clubs) where "all ladies are welcome" doesn't hold up. The striptease culture democracy theory doesn't make the jump to practice.

Before we can discuss the priorities of Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance events space, it's important to understand the historical context of the events and their emergence from a tradition of Black women's use of space for the purposes ofredefining their sexuality on their own terms. In Chapter Three, Black same-sex desiring working-class women's strip events are framed as emergent from the histories of Black women's sexuality as it is mythologized in the United States (out of conditions of slavery) and Black women's resistance to that construction through assertions of control over their bodies as capable of experiencing pleasure on their own terms with each other. As Gilman (1985), Camp

(2004), Staples (2006) and Collins (2004) document in Chapter Three, Black women's sexuality was constructed in the United States as a voracious, ever­ willing, unquenchable drive, which allowed white male slave masters to rationalize their constant access through violence. Camp (2004) continues in

Chapter Three to document the historical ways that Black women found affirmation as a group, asserted sexuality on their own terms. She writes of how Black bondwomen planned and materialized secret parties where dancing, music, drinking and cavorting with Black men. Such secret, after- 210

hours parties allowed Black women to experience their bodies for pleasure, at events when pleasure was the only goal. Those who participated were well aware of the consequences if the parties were discovered. Despite exhaustion the following day and the risk of holding and attending such events, Black peoples looked forward to and spent a lot of time preparing for and planning such parties. They provided an important social connection and welcome distraction from the daily toil of slavery.

As during slavery, some created and patronized safe spaces where

Black peoples could experience their bodies pleasurably- including sexually with members of the same sex. Hazzard-Gordon (1990) documents the history of grassroots social space formation in the form of jooks, buffet flats, rent parties, after-hours parties and house parties. Hazzard-Gordon's work in

Chapter Three explains that, like Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance spaces today, these improvised social spaces served liquor, featured music, dancing and the space to be sexually expressive-while turning a profit for the event organizers. The host(s) often charged a fee to enter their party at their home or another designated space (anything from an abandoned shed to a clearing in a forest). Hosting served an important cultural purpose as well as allowed the host to pay their rent or other bills.

Such ventures were (relatively) safe social havens for Black peoples to express same-sex desire and safely express alternate gender presentations as well as dance, sing, perform and drink. Like the secret parties held during slavery, such parties sought protection from interruption and being targeted by 211

police or whites looking to assert their dominance through harassment or violence.

However, as Black women found themselves rising in terms of class standing, pressures to silence one's sexuality and conform to "home codes" of

Black community expectations increase-and placing those pressures on

Black working-class women's move toward open sexual expression results in secret spatial practices where Black women's bodies can move and desire whom they wish freely. Jocelyn Maria Taylor created one of the first Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance parties as a result of the reaction she experienced an evening at Tracks (Taylor: 1995) on a ladies' night for lesbians in Washington D.C. when she removed her shirt on the dancefloor. A group of Black lesbians at the event judged her as a "freak" and

"indiscriminate" about her sexual desires (Taylor 1995: 37). She was asked to put her shirt back on by the bouncer, to do it "for her sisters" (1995: 40). This incident moved her to create the Clit Club in New York City, a regular party night where women of color (especially) could be openly, unashamedly sexually expressive with one another. Thus, Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance parties seek protection, not just from a mainstream white gaze, but also from middle/upper class Black women's objection to their breaking the expectation of sexual silence. Chapter Three provides the historical and cultural context so crucial for understanding the racial, gender and class influences on how spaces are selected and why. 212

Chapters Four and Five trace the motivations for creating and supporting Black same-sex desiring working-class women's strip events and the connection to the spaces they choose. External concerns of containing difference and lulling heteronormative dominant culture into "not having to think about sexual activities different from one's own" (Mitchell 2000: 177) isn't the only reason for holding events. Chapter Four reveals that, internally, the various motivations for promoters, dancers, etc. are perceived differently among audience members and other promoters, revealing the political implications of the events, the ongoing dialogue over what the events' "true" purpose is, in terms of its authentic reason for being. Motivations for creating events with the intention of "for the good of the community" are read much more positively and judged as better quality than events created to "make a buck" or 'just to party." Promoters and dancers must negotiate how their motivations are perceived: they must be able to stay afloat and be able to continue to participate (by making enough money) without being perceived to be taking advantage ofthe audience members, performers, etc. or encouraging unhealthy socializing (such as, drinking alcohol) or "meaningless" events

('just strippers"). Having a way to "escape" and a "classy place" to go finds itself in delicate balance with the promoter's motivation to generate profit or, at least, break even. The events' "purpose" is a contentious topic among those who organize Black same-sex desiring events in Washington D.C., particularly when the events receive media coverage in gay free papers, 213

reminiscent of the concern over the image the public event will represent to the non-Black viewing eye.

Collective rituals at the parties, such as group stepping, birthday celebrations, the role of the emcee and the techniques of tipping performers, play an important role at Black same-sex desiring women's erotic parties, reinforcing the safety ofjoining in with the group as well as the daring option of acting as an individual. By cultivating a space of resistance, where Black women are central, where sexual openness between them is normalized and these elements help to grant permission to participate and form group connections, rather than foster divisions rooted in judgment over "looking bad" for being a Black woman expressing sexual enthusiasm in front of others.

The project ends with Chapter Six's tracing venue closures and event relocation as a result of the financial interests of the city. In the case of

Wet/The Edge, the venue was shut down to make way for a baseball stadium built by the city. The Soft N Wet party moved to another location in the city but the Wet/The Edge club did not. This closure received a lot of press, especially in the gay weekly, The Washington Blade, along with a great deal ofresistance from communities who would not allow a gay strip clubs in their neighborhood, citing "danger," "harm to their children," "reduced property values" and other misconceptions about strip clubs which mixed with homophobia to create a powerfully negative backlash against future reopening of Wet/The Edge at another location in Washington DC. 214

The Village Voice article, "Girls to Men," printed in April 2007, written by Chloe Hilliard, criticized similar events in New York City, claiming the spaces as dangerous, out of control and concluding that Black women's pursuit of same-sex pleasures at the parties are misogynist and that hip-hop-informed gender presentations are at the expense of other women, joining the discourse that denigrates hip-hop culture as reckless and destructive. When the Black women who create and attend the events control the public/private boundary for their events (what is visible and to whom), they do so in the interest of maintaining comfort, safety and control over the meaning of their events, knowing the easy, negative conclusions that could be drawn from a cursory glance at the events: objectification, thug culture mimicry, that events are evidence of "the truth:" that Black female sexuality is out of control and "all lesbians are sneaky" (Hilliard: 2007). The damage the author does through her surface reporting (in the interest of distancing herself from the Black women who "make us all look bad" she encounters at the event) isn't just to the events but to the Black women themselves who have cultivated this space for very specific reasons, to serve as crucial outlets for acceptance and sexual freedom.

Simply put, Chapter Two argues that having visibility in striptease culture (in essence, the media) does not necessarily translate into acceptance, full rights and ability to have one's sexual identity or perspective be respected, valued, etc. in real life, nor does it provide an indicator of one's access to public space for sexual expression. Despite McNair's (2002) claims that 215

women and gays have more access to the "democratized sexual public sphere" than they used to, this does not mean these groups are homogenous and we all have equal access and representation in the media or that we have actual public space to get together and do that work. Marginalized sexualities have been talking back to dominant sexual oppression for a long time, before the concept of striptease culture came to be- and Black same-sex desiring working-class women are no exception. In the traditions of Bell and

Valentine (1995), Knopp (1995), Valentine (1996), whose work convincingly investigate the specific ways in which same-sex identified peoples resist through making their own unique spatial appropriation practices and events

(and their histories of doing so), the roots of Black same-sex desiring women's public sexual sphere thus become the focus of this project.

Chapter Three understands that Black same-sex desiring working-class women's strip events continue the traditions/histories and further development of the Black public sphere by creating spac€s away from white surveillance.

Events are designed expressly to avoid interference and enable Black peoples to define their bodies, their sexualities and themselves for themselves. Such subversive spatial practices disrupt notions of what Black women's bodies are

"for," and allowed them to experience and define them as they wished. Like

Rochelle Thorpe's work on Detroit's "blind pig" traditions among Black queer peoples and George Chauncey's exhaustive historical record, Gay New

York, we know that racially marginalized and same-sex desiring people organized themselves and found each other, long before identity terms 216

emerged to mark them. Increasingly, research teaches us that modem manifestations of resistance and community-making emerge from a rich tradition of risk-taking in the name of developing connections with one another in the face of inequality and injustice.

Chapters Four and Five delve into the specific details of how the spaces are utilized and why. On first glance, researchers might say, "These events are basically a strip club for Black women," but on closer inspection, it becomes clear that this comparison would simply erase the uniqueness of what they create. The reasons why Black same-sex desiring women select their spaces and the actions they take all serve to address individual as well as collective needs for acceptance and permission to be openly sexual. While related to the purpose of traditional strip clubs for men (Frank 2003; Liepe­

Levinson 2002; Eaves 2004; Foley 2005; Brockert 2002), Black same-sex desiring women's erotic performance events stand on their own to represent the ways in which history, desire, space and culture come together for these women.

Chapter Six reveals that spaces cannot be taken for granted, that despite political, cultural and social advances, opportunities for Black same­ sex desiring women to hold erotic performance parties are neither easily attained nor valued by a city motivated by tourism. Here we find that, despite promises made to the gay club complex in Southeast by police, keeping "out of sight" does not mean one will be "left alone" (Chibbaro: 2006). Issues of visibility become more pronounced in the larger, national conversations about 217

civil rights, same-sex marriage, who gets to represent LGBTQ communities on the national political stage and offers a contrast to the strategic sanitization of same-sex desire for straight consumption (and, implicitly, to gamer their acceptance).

In the tradition of public sex literature, this project understands Black same-sex desiring women's erotic events demonstrate the constant movement and malleability of the boundaries between public/private. The events show us how Black women's spatial practices in the host venues contribute to their pursuit of sexual citizenship. Rather than via strip clubs, the grassroots Black public sphere has a long history as the site of Black women redefinition of themselves as sexual agents. The boundary between public and private space is not neatly contained but rather manipulated deliberately and strategically to create and preserve Black women's sexual culture and spatial practices.

Through their events, Black women's same-sex desiring erotic parties help re­ imagine Black women's same-sex sexuality and gender possibilities- on their terms.

In this case, as stated in the Introduction to this project, public sex work by such authors as Crimp (1989), Warner and Berlant (1998), Leap

(1999) and Hammers (2008) provide the foundation for understanding the cultivation of secret, sexual space for risky expression. For example,

Douglas Crimp' s criticism of a dominant gaze meant to "clean up" same-sex expression (1989: 13) and the drive to create a "queer utopia," where freedom and acceptance reign for those cast out of dominant lesbian or gay space is 218

part of the motivation for creating the events (as stated in Chapter Three).

Further, Leap problematizes the notion of discrete boundaries around public

and private, understanding "multiple meanings" for public sex sites (rather than a singular, dominant interpretation) as well as the "effects which claims to a public or private location impose on site-specific erotic practices" (Leap

1999: 2). Hence, the focus on space reveals the "how" and "why" of what happens in the space, as Chapters Four and Five of this project describe.

Warner and Berlant (1998) help define why, despite the absence of obvious sexual intercourse, the events should be considered part of "public sex" studies for the dramatic sexual and cultural transgressions the events offer.

Their assertions in the project's Introduction provide some unfortunate foreshadowing of the territory covered in Chapter Six, when the spaces which successfully contained these acts are destroyed to make way for tourism and more socially acceptable consumerism (condominiums, chain retail stores, etc.) in Washington D.C. Finally, Corie Hammers (2008) recent dissertation on women's appropriation of gay male bathhouses (and successful deflection of police harassment) moves the discussion of public sex (overwhelmingly associated with gay men) to the often-overlooked arena of same-sex interactions between women. Rather than a theoretical media "striptease culture" to which all sexual minorities suddenly have access and visibility, as

Brian McNair seems to claim in Chapter Two, Hammers documents the strategies of lesbian women to appropriate and claim actual space for the purposes of expanding understanding of and exploding assumptions about 219

what it means to be a women with a sexual appetite for other women. This project works in service of these efforts through its focus on Black same-sex desiring women and the specific ways they use space in Washington D.C. to express sexual desire for each other.

Although attitudes and behaviors are patterned by sexual scripts dictated to us by society and various social actors (parents, teachers, peers), my findings indicate that the Black women who arrange the events in

Washington D.C. are able to resist traditional notions concerning sexuality by developing spatial alternatives for "trying out" new interpretations of the

Black female body, of Black female sexuality- thus, opposing such scripts.

That sexual scripts are flexible and malleable suggests that social constructions of gender and sexuality are (at least, in part) artificial. As stated in the Introduction, queer theory finds limited utility in this work (Cohen:

2005; Johnson: 2005; Gamson 1995). Due to its association with white gay maleness as well as its focus on sex, "queer" is often rejected by communities of color as an identifying term, even if the foundational notion of queer politics that social categories (and their associated meanings) are fluid, mobile and changeable may hold true for same-sex desiring people of color.

This work also finds that Black women have long acted in their own interest to define their sexuality on their own terms- and not simply to attain a male model of sexual behavior when it comes to sex. The philosophy of creating a safe space as a prerequisite for an erotic performance event influences the types of spaces selected, the ways the spaces are used and how 220

successful (profit and longevity) the event will be. However, the ongoing efforts of these Black women to redefine the meanings of their sexual desires through erotic performance events remain largely invisible or misinterpreted.

That Black women's alternative sexual scripts (and thus, ways of understanding their sex and sexuality) are limited or downplayed is an indication of what's at stake in the containment of these events. Thus, this project sought to bring Black women's same-sex desiring erotic performance events into the arena of discussion, not just to acknowledge their existence, but to understand the motivations, meanings and significance of their efforts, within a broad historical and geographical (Washington D.C.) context.

Future Research

Although none of the three sites I studied are still in existence, the events continue to operate in Prince George's County, Baltimore and near the

Washington D.C.-Maryland borders. That the events still continue today, despite changing neighborhoods, demolished buildings and the dominance of a tourism agenda in Washington D.C., is an indication of how important these events are to the Black same-sex desiring women who create, perform at and attend them. Future investigations could measure the impact of moving to a new part of town, the ways in which the new spaces impact the events, when does an event's identity change as a result of moving to the new space and inquiring about the impact on events which may already be in operation in that area (or in that exact space). Although Washington D.C. enjoys a 221

reputation as a Black cultural center for same-sex desiring people, Black women's same-sex desiring erotic performance events are widespread in urban areas across the country and a multi-sited ethnography could produce some exciting results.

A few questions emerged for me as I completed this project, all of which remain outside the scope of my own investigation here. One such question deals with the impact on Black women's same-sex desiring selves outside of the events. For instance, are there ways in which their experiences at the events translate into the "real self' of everyday life, into their relationships? How does the feeling of freedom and comfort within the walls of the event impact their transition to the "real world," back to their "real lives" and relationships? What about internalized homophobia, sexism, racism for Black women's same-sex desire?

Another question about space could be, will there ever be a dedicated

Black same-sex desiring women's "strip club:" a space which is always available for and exclusively used for the purposes of Black women's erotic performance parties? Would such a space survive financially? Materially?

Culturally? Safely? How secret or open would it be? What about issues of discrimination if men were denied entrance (out of a legitimate wish to insulate the space from gendered power dynamics)? Based on my findings, I am doubtful that such a place exists today or will in the future, but I would welcome a cultural moment when it could. 222

Every so often in my fieldwork, I encountered the occasional straight

Black woman who attended events, who expressed enjoyment and camaraderie with her fellow same-sex desiring Black female friends.

Although her presence at events appeared to be a rarity to me during my fieldwork, what is the experience of a straight Black woman in these spaces?

Without disputing her right to participate, what is her motivation to be in the space and what personal costs might she encounter for doing so? And what is her reaction to those costs or stigma she may encounter- whether inside or outside the walls of the event space? Conducting interviews and recording my own observations worked to document the active uses of space to construct a positive, valued Black female same-sex desiring environment. Like the events themselves, focusing on space allowed me to foreground the relationships between agency and desire to reveal the meanings that the Black same-sex desiring women who created the events intend to come through.

While I have argued that Black same-sex desiring women are working to create a safe space for sexual expression and comfort, different avenues of study beyond ethnography or a focus on space still remain. Quantitative measures of the responses to health promotion materials (i.e.: do the programs and materials reduce smoking, binge drinking, increase mammograms among the Black same-sex desiring women who found them at the events?) or studies of Black same-sex desiring women's perceived levels of self-efficacy and self-value among those who attend events are all potential next steps to better understand the role of the events in Black same-sex desiring women's lives 223

and how the events can be conduits for reducing health disparities among

Black same-sex desiring women more generally.

Ultimately, in this project (and for any future research directions based on it), in the tradition of public sex research literature, I reassert that investigations of public sexual culture must continue to move beyond questions of empowerment or exploitation or whether such practices "harm" the community image into deeper questions of how, why and what it means to the people who create and participate in public sexual cultural spaces. That the people in the space are not "having sex" in the space is irrelevant when we carefully consider the risks and freedoms surrounding the ways Black same­ sex desiring women use space for their events. While I embrace public sex research for this project as a guide for my analysis, queer theory finds limited utility in its tendency to blur category lines- a blur which does not yet occur in the social realities of the Black same-sex desiring women in this project.

That a space where Black same-sex desiring women may cultivate their sexual selves in a safe and powerful way exists (and that it has existed for many years, without comprehensive study or discussion) is an important indicator of where we are socially and culturally with regard to valuing variations in women's sexuality in general and Black same-sex desiring women's sexuality specifically. I believe that this research demonstrates that even the most utopian of visions for Black same-sex desiring women's sexual freedoms are, in a fundamental way, possible. Despite the many challenges and outright obstacles which can (and do) limit their uses of space, increasing 224

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